DFWCon 2012: Bathroom Stalls & Embarrassing Pitch Sessions

OH MY GOSH, I WROTE ANOTHER BLOG ENTRY. This has absolutely nothing to do with me avoiding more edits after my eyes went cross-eyed. None.

I again attended DFWCon this year with the lovely Kayla Olson, only this time we came in tow with eight other friends. Yes, eight.

Me (with baby bump), Deb, Laura, Nicole, Jasmine, Lina, Liza, Kayla, China, Corey

Through the magic and power of twitter, we managed to sway most all of our twitter friends (and a few new ones) to drag their rear ends out to Dallas for 48 of the craziest hours of their lives. And it. was. awesome.

Writers are often pegged as solitary, introverted people. Clearly, the developers of this stereotype have never met the above pictured group of people. I quadruple dog dare you to tell me Nicole is introverted. It was incredible to spend a whole weekend absorbing amazing classes* and talking books and Choose Your Own Adventures and Oregon Trail movies with these girls. I wish we could all live together dorm-style forever. You know, with the spouses & kids tucked in there somewhere, too.

The weekend was more than just a crash course in Getting to Know Your Twitter Pal, it was quite a landmark for me in many ways as well. I actually had a project to pitch this year** and sat down with an agent for the very first time. I am also 8 months pregnant and became a target for jokes whenever a door prize winner wasn’t in the room.*** The bathroom and I became well acquainted that weekend.

I went into DFWCon not expecting a request, but just grateful for the chance to actually talk to an agent face-to-face. Or even multiple of them, if I could garner the guts to do so. Here is what I’ve learned from this invaluable experience:

1. Do not tell the agent you are nervous to talk to them because they just said their client list for a particular genre is full. They no doubt went into this knowing (or hoping) they find interesting projects to take on, regardless of the genre.
2. Likewise, do not tell the agent you find them scary. “Intimidated and in awe of their success” may be a much softer and kinder way to say this.
3. Do not babble like an idiot when they have mentioned they need to find the little girls’ room.
4. Do not stare at them like they are coocoo for cocoa puffs if they suggest your clearly-not-SciFi manuscript should be pitched to another agent at the conference who is looking for SciFi. Politely nod and offer her another beer before moving along.
5. Remember they are human and would like to be treated like a normal person. Talk to them as such.
6. Count your blessings every day face-to-face encounters often allow the first two lines of agent defense to be broken, so your pages have a chance to speak louder than your rambling did.

Registration for the 2013 conference is already open and running at a discounted rate of $225 until June 1! That’s $70 off of  the Early Bird rate. I strongly urge anyone considering a conference to check out DFWCon. There is food EVERYWHERE, drinks EVERYWHERE, insanely friendly people, hilarious staff, fantastic classes, and an amazing group of agents. Not to mention the infamous gong show, which drives fear and cheer into the hearts of writers everywhere.

You can’t afford to miss it. PLUS. You’d get to hang out with some of the most awesome people you’ve ever met. True story.

* James Rollins is now my new literary crush. The man is a brilliant, humble, HILARIOUS genius and I want to read books for this very reason.
** Last year, I abandoned my WIP during the keynote speech of the conference. UBER CONVENIENT, RIGHT?!
*** “710258…. no? Maybe they’re the 8 month pregnant girl…” repeat. All weekend.

Favorite Finds: Colbert vs Sendak

In light of the chaos erupting across the social mediaverse concerning a certain NYT article on adults reading YA, I thought I would lighten things in my little corner.

Stephanie Perkins put up video from the Stephen Colbert interview with Maurice Sendak. In it, they discuss celebrity children’s books, the formulas needed to make one, and Maurice gives his opinion on ebooks. Funny, smart, and disturbingly on point – check them out!

 

…. Ok. WordPress is NOT letting me embed these videos. So check out Stephanie’s blog post here.

Lucky Number Sleven

Laura Moss recently tagged me for the Lucky #7 game. And it sounds like fun, so why not?

I’ve been out of the loop for so long, I don’t have another seven to tag – but if you want to play along, PLEASE DO! & tell people I tagged you. I’ll claim it. Then link in the comments so I can drool over all of your WIPs.

Be warned, however: I can’t promise I won’t begin berating you for a copy ASAP.

The Rules:

1. Go to page 77 of your current MS.
2. Go to line 7.
3. Copy down the next seven lines or sentences and paste them as they’re written.
4. Tag seven other writers to play the game.

 

Her tiny fists clenched the wooden spoon, sending pockets of hot gravy skyward. I ducked, but she remained nonplussed as a fat drop heaved into her forearm. I reached around to her apron and pulled it up, cleaning up the mess. Under the watery gray mess was an angry red mark. Rosie didn’t seem to notice.

“Rose.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head as tears peaked around the rim of her muddled blue eyes. My fingers removed her rogue tears as though they were birds with broken wings. Unsure of what to do

Mid sentence, even! Thems the breaks, kid. This is an excerpt from my current project. Anticipated completion date of this draft is next Sunday (cue panic attacks) so I can begin editing like a mad woman for the upcoming DFWCon in late May.

 

Now it’s your turn to share! Link it in my comments and I’ll go drool over your words. You know you wanna.

Feeling Out the Process

Taking a hiatus creates a mixed bag of emotions and cause/effects. For example:

Get lots of rest – write a really awesome new story.

Read good books – file away amazing ways to captivate a reader.

However, dear friends, however. Also looming in the background is the agitated “muse”; the mythological creature responsible for sending all us creative types to our respective creative graves when (s)he isn’t getting enough attention. Those claws of death will reel and sink into our sensitive skin until we beg for mercy and swear to never abandon them again.

Currently, I am being bashed over the head repeatedly for taking time off because I am still learning what process works best for me during the drafting stage. And, clearly, had I not taken a sabbatical, this would not be the issue. My muse believes I would have already attained JK Rowling status.

Except, I don’t believe it. For the last 2.5 years, I’ve started my journey towards “serious” writing. The kind of writing that is supposed to end in book deals and ARCs and pretty bookmarks with my name all over them. But it’s a process, relearning how my mind functions as a creative machine.

I am very left brained. Most of my adolescence and puberty years assured me otherwise, but as I became an adult, it was quite clear. I’m logical, need lists, need order, need deadlines. Imposing these things upon my own muse? DEADLY. The grave of abandoned and overplanned projects grows steadily. Total pantsing doesn’t work, either. The lack of direction frustrates the balance of my personality. Excessive catch up planning to regain control of the pantsing? Also literary death.

For this draft, I’m winging it with only minor scribbles of direction as I go.  So far, it’s working great. Everything is a little muddled in a “I haven’t quite decided where his/her allegiance lies” kind of way, but story is moving. And I’m loving it.

I cannot, however, promise this will last me through until THE END. For every writer, this whole drafting/writing/editing game is a process. A floaty, undefined process only discovered by the journey of writing and the WIP gravestones along the way. Am I jealous of those who stumble into accidental gold during their first rodeo? Absolutely. But those lucky few are so rare, it’s absurd to let the jealousy hinder my own journey.

The beautiful thing is I am finally, 2.5 years later, at a point where I am beginning to enjoy my own ride. The outcome is shrouded, the balance of road shadowed, but the excitement of discovery is a beacon.

The Gambler

Hello, friends!

I had big plans to revamp the blog, move some things, hide some things, delete some things… and then I became too busy to figure out how to do exactly what I wanted to do.

So I said screw it.

I was also going to write this wonderful Catch You Up on All Things Melissa, but that, too, was scrapped. Here is the Readers Digest version: I got pregnant (with a boy! Husband is overjoyed! As am I – NO MORE KIDS! HURRAY!), the illness was so painful I stopped writing and reading and eating and breathing. Things got better, the words came back. The End.

This sabbatical of sorts did not come without providing ample lessons. Many centered around perseverance and priorities. A few days ago, someone on twitter linked an article about knowing the Writers from the “writers” (I wish I could link it… alas). In it, the comparison centered around Writers writing at all hours of the day, slaving away under the burden of their thirst for words and stories. “writers” just talked about writing and whined about not getting published. (Or some similar sentiment. It wasn’t particularly friendly)

Short-sighted, much? Yes, there is a distinction between those who want and those who do. But don’t we all have lapses where it just isn’t feasible? Where our priorities kick us in the rear end and scream – “Hey you! Slow it down!” I was on bed rest for three weeks very early on, very abruptly. My boss tried to lighten the situation by telling me this was ample time for me to write; what a lucky girl I was!

I spent three weeks watching every episode of How I Met Your Mother*. And rolling around in misery. And not even thinking about touching a Word document.

My body and mind needed rest. Could I have powered through the anguish and written a bunch of rubbish just to keep it going, to force myself into a habit? Yes, absolutely. But there are times where we must put the pen down or the keyboard away and focus on something other than word goals. I have a family, a full time job, a full time school schedule, and an active church life. My body and small fetus desperately needed a break.

Fully recovered (or as much as humanly possible while playing Incubator), my new manuscript is stronger than ever. My crit partners agreed to stomach the first draft as Alpha readers, demanding new pages every week to keep me on task. They have each voiced the improvement they’ve seen over my last drafts.

If thick walls of uselessness are crowding in, don’t lose heart. Life happens. Absolutely, do your best to work as much as feasible; meet those word goals, page goals, chapter goals; pummel away when the flu rages or a child pukes all night. But never be afraid to say, “For now, I must rest.” The brain needs it.

 

* Best. Three. Weeks. Ever. Want a fun show with great storytelling? HIMYM!

Don’t blink…

NaNoWriMo 2011

Try not to have a heart attack, y’all.

MELISSA IS BACK ON THE BLOG.

All two of my remaining readers are probably choking to death.

I’ve mostly come back to say hello. And assure all two remaining readers I am not, in fact, dead. My heart is pumping along just dandy, thank you very much.

For the third year in a row, I’m participating in the illustrious NaNoWriMo “competition”. 2009 was a win, 2010 was a loss, 2011 is going to be a royal word butt kicking.

Here is a brief recap for anyone who doesn’t follow my twitter feed (yes, also resurrected from the dead for NaNo):

TOTALS:
Day One: 6,387
Day Two: 9,152
Day Three: 15,564
Day Seven: 20,002 (I took a break to finish schoolwork so I didn’t, you know, fail out of my first week of these new classes…)

SO. It’s going swimmingly, and thanks to my lovely crit partner, Mrs. Liza Kane, and our ridiculous brainstorming session on Day Three, I now have a pretty decent plot, some excellent ideas, and more words in one single draft than I’ve had all year.

Time to get back in the trenches..

Reflection.

“Quit staring.”

His hand hovered over her ankle, heat traveling to her knee and through her elbows, then returned to its station on the gear shift. The ever vigilant soldier. Twelve mile markers passed before he cleared his throat. She met his shaded gaze in the rearview mirror, watching his eyebrows jiggle in glee.

“You know,” he grinned wickedly. “If you lumber around with a swollen belly, we wouldn’t have nearly as good a time.”

Her face twitched into a fleeting smile and let her heavy lids drop, free hand secured lightly over her middle. “Sorry to break it to you, but it’s already swollen from all the drive thru burger stops.”

His hand covered hers just long enough to allow his heat to transfer – then back to the gear shift. She drifted to sleep, allowing the roaring winds to drown out her dreams.

The One Where I Remember

So. I have a new project.

Again.

Shelving another project.

Again.

I believe I’ve been project hoping until something feels… right. At first, it felt like a cop-out: I wasn’t dedicated, structured, or disciplined enough to complete the existing manuscript. Those are large words to swallow… because they all boil down to “I think I’m not good enough.”

2011 has been a year of discovery for me, and the veneer is slowly chipping away. I’m proud to say I am good enough. I have stories. Ideas. Scribbles. Scraps of phrases. Mental pictures. Things well enough to make my toes occasionally curl in joy because I wrote that – not someone else.

I even found the cover art of my future book. Who cares if it’s two or ten years away?

The block revolved around finding the right story; the one that makes my fingers itch and my legs twitch and my brain get fuzzy and hazy. Not to jinx anything, but I think I’ve found it.

It’s been invigorating. More than any other project. Maybe because it’s so personal. Maybe it’s because I finally feel well enough in my writer brain to accept this draft needs words on a page so I can rearrange them the way I picture them.

A healthy mental space. I dare say it is more important than the best atmosphere, writing utensils, or schedule.

Revisited.

It all started with a picnic.

A stringy basket, some bruised apples and a cheap bottle of gas station wine. They clinked plastic glasses in the setting sun and piled atop one another as the sky lit on fire. He played with her hair. She memorized the path of freckles on his wrist. They made plans dipped in sugary promises, cupped in their private retreat.

Each melted on her tongue, as real as the next: watermelon, cranapple, grape. A picket fence, a hunting dog, heaps of presents piled beneath a bedecked tree.

Their fingers raked through the dirt and leaves, listing destinations and milestones. Birthdays, anniversaries, graduations. Her heart wanted to burst from love and happiness, feeling both heavy and weightless; terror and freedom. They would carve a path from the shadows, dance among the stars, stomp the coarse mouths of those who stopped them.