Wandering the woods. Again.

I wrote the following poem last Spring after my Mom's passing. I ran across it today and thought I'd post it for anyone who, like me, has spent much of their life wandering in the woods, both figurative and literal.

These Woods

These

           deep

                    deep

                             woods

with brown brittle leaves

                                         windswept

                                                              strewn

and birds

                upon birds

                                  upon birds

singing in their infinite joy

                                           and

                                                  daily

                                                            chatter

These woods like a

                                darkened

                                                womb

bid me enter and

                              remember

                                                and

                                                        remember

Our lives a tangled twitter

                                           unfinished clutter

                                                                        impossible beauty

ravaged and torn

                            reborn

                                        beneath an ever changing sky

                                                                                        and deepest night

'til light returns to surest light

                                                beginning

                                                                 where we end

the wordless and the wilfull and the

                                                           ever present

                                                                                 morning song

Love Letters...

And now back to Literary Agent Theatre, the second of a two part series chronicling my pursuit of Mr. Mayberry, the agent I fell for at the Spring SCBWI conference after a chance encounter at the snack bar.

My first query/love letter amounted to… nothing. Nada. Zippo. Not even an acknowledgement. Not an outright rejection mind you, I could’ve handled that with a bit of Kleenex and a bottle of screw-you-too (the vintage is always perfect regardless of who or what is on the label).

The lack of response was troubling since it left me to debate whether I had been rejected or just misplaced in a kindly though inadvertent spam folder. Did I need to accept the truth of my rejection? Or had I been mistaken for Mr. Abed the secretary of the interior of a small African country in need of an American bank account to keep safe several million dollars until the current civil unrest in his country quiets down.

This lack of response might have deterred a lesser writer but I am far lesser than that. I make lesser look good. I laugh at lesser and spin pirouettes on the razor thin lip of lesser's depressed depths.

Instead, I shuffled through the house chanting in Latin and banging my unfinished novel against my forehead like a medieval monk from Monty Python’s Holy Grail. What I needed was a new edge, something eye grabbing and undeniable. I didn’t have anything like that but I did have a couple wrinkles up my sleeve.

For some reason in the weeks following the conference picture book ideas had been flashing through my head like flashbulbs at a Brittany Spears concert, though with significantly more class and less skin. I finished Spring quarter in the Writing For Children Program at the UW by pumping out roughly a picture book a week. I was voted Most Likely To Annoy by my classmates for the effort.

With these manuscripts burning in my hand and a smoldering carpe diem hunger in my eyes I decided to make the bold move of sending a second query. I opened with this little gem drawn from our chance encounter at the conference: ‘The walks in the park were a highlight, not to mention the spontaneous duets we shared. Not really. We're men, dammit. Maybe next time.’ Perhaps I should've toned down the sarcastic wit but I decided if I’m to be a professional storyteller/liar then I'm going to do it on my own terms, I already have a day job.

I then described the two manuscripts I was sending and ended with a brief description of my background, including ‘I just completed the Writing For Children certificated program at the University of Washington. My head is currently swollen with the knowledge that writing for children is much more difficult than being a child. Who knew?’

On that note I pressed send and for the second time waved my submission goodbye. Seven weeks later I got back the following reply: ‘These are fun.  I think the monster story has sales potential.  I would probably have to pair it with one of my illustrators before I sent it out.  Do you have anything else?’

WHAT?! My submission got through? And he wants to see more? After throwing out my half empty bottle of screw-you-too, I went right to work scrounging through the piles of picture book manuscripts I was using to build an addition onto the house. I immediately sent two additional manuscripts with the following intro: ‘SHAKINGLY, SPEWINGLY MAD attempts to capture the volatile nature of a preschool friendship gone bad and, ultimately, redeemed. And I AM NOT A DUCK is a Boynton meets Breathed story of a duck with a playful imagination who refuses to be stifled by reality.’

A mere two weeks later I returned from vacation to the following email:  ‘Hello Dan, I'm impressed.  I have to run out soon, but send me a reminder e-mail on Monday of next week and we'll talk about these stories that you sent.’ 

At this point I felt like piddling like a happy puppy. I refrained, not without some difficulty which will probably lead to a prostrate issue later in life. Instead I let out a contented sigh (read hysterical scream) and reflected on my journey. The writing. The waiting. More writing. More waiting. More writing mixed with more waiting mixed with bouts of screw-you-too drinking (I don’t actually drink much but it somehow sounds Hemingwayish to say so).

I was almost there. I could taste it like a warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie right out of the oven. Not to be confused with those dry nasty little concoctions that come in a bag and you only eat when you're too lazy to bake. I mean the real goodness to gracious homemade kind that may come from the freezer section of the store in a tube but what a glorious tube.

If only the story could end here. But it doesn’t. Sadly. The attention of an agent seems only the beginning. Or the middle. Or maybe that last bit at the end of each sitcom episode that keeps you in your seat until the next show begins. Anyway, stay tuned… there’s more to come right after this short commercial break…

Why Do We Create Art?

I’d like to take a diversion from my story of the last few posts and discuss a philosophical point of debate. Why are some of us compelled to make art? You have to understand when I say art I mean the loathsome, fear inducing, diabolical, good for nothing, manic, depressive, infuriating, completely random, utterly beautiful acts of where-did-that-come-from that we spend hours giving birth to like Atlas in the eternal void pulling the world from his arse just so he can feel the weight of a squirming waking world resting on his shoulders.   

If ever there was a reason to question evolution it has to be the insatiable desire to create despite the grim reality that most works of art remain forever locked away in obscurity. If survival of the fittest was the gospel truth then artists would have evolved into accountants long ago. While I’m at it, the same argument could be applied to the questionable existence of god. Honestly, if there was a god wouldn’t he have an infinitely large refrigerator where all works of art could be displayed? Judging by the pile of musty manuscripts in my desk drawer god is either a poor parent or an even worse writing instructor.  

Getting back to the original question, why do we create art? Come to think of it, what is art? Now that’s a question. Here’s a definition you’ll want to hold onto:  Art is equal parts inspiration and self loathing bound together by a continual fear of rejection.

Ah, now that’s a definition you can sink your teeth into. A definition right from the gut. There’s nothing like the smell of fear and loathing in the morning. And yet it’s the moments of inspiration that rule the day, that keep the artist coming back for more like a newlywed on their wedding night. Inspiration gives the feeling of being utterly alone yet connected to all things in the universe, suspended in time, eternal yet fleeting without a care or Starbucks in sight.

The struggle is timeless. Don’t think it coincidental that the early cave drawings are hidden deep within tunnels of rock. Believe me, those early cave artists understood. They invented obscurity long before civilization gave rise to the word.

Why do we create art? Why do we breathe? Why do we procreate? Why our proclivity for sugar cereal despite governmental warnings? Life is a mystery, a lesson in yearning and brute survival with the occasional moment of ecstasy thrown in to keep our libido pumping.

Why do we create art? Because life is a surprise, and some surprises look best mounted on the wall, or bound in hardcover, or sung to a child who won’t go to sleep no matter how much Captain Crunch you give them before bedtime.

Why do we create art? Because the artist is and always will be within each of us.

When Romance Goes Wrong - or what Young Shakespeare In Love didn't prepare me for

My blooming romance with a literary agent, as alluded to in my last post, began near the end of the SCBWI Spring Writer’s Conference. Like all great love stories it began with a moment that can only be described as—unremarkable. Let’s be honest, this ain’t that kinda love story.

After watching him from afar, we had a chance encounter at the snack bar. I looked over at him, he looked over the gum choices, and our eyes met briefly. He selected Juicy Fruit. I selected him, though to be fair, at that moment he could have been a prancing pony or a stray bit of earwax. My attraction wasn’t physical, it was literary. Behind his name were the two words I desired most: literary agent. Had I the choice between a pole dancer, a French maid or the agent before me I would have pulled myself up by my chastity straps and chosen him, hands down. I am neither cheap nor easy but the weekend had worn me down and I was desperate for the affection of an industry insider, someone who would make me feel special, needed. Or at least visible, I was beginning to wonder.

I wanted to run to him and cry out ‘please have my baby’ (by baby I mean my first novel) but I knew I had to play it cool. Instead, I made small talk about how wonderful the conference had been, even though I had mostly spent the weekend stressing out trying to meet someone who could advance my career.

The agent of my dreams, in his good natured way, ignored my insecurities without ignoring me. Having spent years trying to ignore my own insecurities I was duly impressed how he did so with such ease. Perhaps it was the gum. Juicy Fruit can do that.

Before we parted I worked up the courage to hand him my business card (you should’ve seen the cards I had made boldly declaring Author right behind my name. They were beautiful. They still make me weep). He took my card and tucked it into his pocket atop the other three hundred cards he couldn’t wait to get home and wonder what to do with. But I didn’t care. I had met someone. It was all that mattered. I watched him walk away, his lanky Midwestern backside swaying to some internal happy-go-lucky Mayberry beat. I was smitten.

That night I wrote a love letter in the form of an email complete with witty repartee and heartfelt yearning. I made it clear I knew a good thing when I saw it and he was the one destined to be my agent. I attached my completed novel GHOSTBACK and my partially finished novel THE BONE THIEF and pressed send with a rush of adrenaline, thrilled at my own boldness. I couldn’t help it. My instincts told me it felt so right. When you’re in love you have to follow your heart and reason must give way to fancy. I had watched YOUNG SHAEKSPEARE IN LOVE and knew these things. And so I sent my love letter into the dark reaches of cyberspace in the hopes a note of equal tenderness would soon be returned.

I never heard back. Two months later reality sat on top of me like a sack of baking potatoes (big baking potatoes, the kind you wrap in tin foil and leave in the oven for an hour then split open and fill with melting butter and sour cream while wondering how a milk product that's already sour can have a freshness date?). I faced a critical choice. Do I heal my wounds of unrequited love and move on or risk further rejection with a second, though slightly less revealing, letter?

Tune in next time when you’ll hear me say ‘DEAR GOD, ARE YOU S%*&%*#G ME?’ or something like that, perhaps a bit more literary and child friendly.

Day Two of the SCBWI Conference

Day two of the conference, actually day one since the previous night was nothing more than a social event turned drunken orgy (drunken orgy in the children’s book business is when two hundred female authors huddle together squealing while a half dozen male authors stare at their feet) began at the crack of dawn and didn’t end until the evening of the following day, or something like that.

I arrived to find way too much happiness in the main meeting room. Apparently most authors practice their craft bright and early. I for one greet the morning like an astronaut encountering weightlessness, I do my best not to vomit. While most the attendees took up chatting where they left off the night before, I sat hunched in the corner pouring over the list of editors and agents I intended to meet so help me god. My experience the previous evening had taught me one thing: children’s publishing is not child’s play. Today I would be the predator and they my prey (at least that’s the sort of gibberish that was going through my head. Predator? Really? Please.).  

The morning keynote speaker was Lani Taylor, author of DREAMDARK BLACKBRINGER and other works of beautiful literary magic. Her bright pink locks gleaming in the lights, she delivered a speech that built to a climax so satisfying I longed for a cigarette afterward.

Next, awards were announced for a juried art show of the most promising, upcoming illustrators in the area. This led to a ten minute break, just enough time for four hundred women to form a boa constrictor sized line leading into the ladies room while the half dozen men in the crowd formed more of an inch worm sized line of our own.

While waiting for a urinal I realized the tall, thin black man behind me had been awarded second for his artwork. Duly impressed I turned and told him nice job. In return I received an angry glare. Huh? I was about to remark there’s nothing wrong with second when I realized, to my horror, there were apparently two tall, thin black men at the conference, he being the other one.

Let me be clear. I can tell the difference between people of color. Most of the time. Any confusion I have stems from the simple fact I grew up in a small town as uniform as a shaker of salt. We were whiter than a Tide commercial. People of color existed only on TV, like muscular aliens brought to earth for the sole purpose of boxing, basketball and performing feats of strength.  I still remember the first time I faced a black player on the basketball court. I knew he would crush me. And he did. It didn’t help he was Lenny Wilkens’ son. Anyway, I finished my business, zipped up and soldiered back to my table with only my hot, glowing ears to mark the event.

I spent the next four hours attending break out sessions with the agents and editors on my hit list, each tantalizingly close yet beyond reach. During the breaks I would approach the nearest one only to be thwarted by a throng of other would-be suitors blocking my path. The women in the room were tougher than I thought. And well versed in hip checking. By mid afternoon I was bruised, battered and getting nowhere.

The stress was taking a toll. I needed a break. I retreated to my car and promptly fell asleep. I awoke to eyes peering through the window and a security guard tapping on the glass.  Apparently it’s a crime to fall asleep at a childrens author conference. Who knew?

I returned to the conference in time for my ten minute manuscript consultation with the Italian leather boot wearing New York literary agent. I sat across from her while the clock ticked. Minutes passed. I listened to a fly hiccup.  Finally, the buzzer sounded. As I stood to go she handed me a folded piece of paper. I stumbled away, the sound of hiccupping still ringing in my ears.

I stepped outside and exhaled. $35 for ten minutes of silence. What the h*&%? Then I looked down at the paper in my hand and my consternation was complete. A neatly typed review of my work both eloquent and insightful greeted me. What? I replayed the last 24 hours in my mind. Perhaps she wasn’t snubbing me. Perhaps she was just shy and a bit overwhelmed by all the people clamoring for her attention. Hmm… this makes for poor Hollywood but a pretty good dose of reality. Maybe, just maybe, I had jumped to a wrong conclusion.

An hour before the conference ended I found myself at the snack counter along with another of the invited agents. I had heard him speak at a session earlier and he had seemed quite down to earth, sort of a gee whiz I grew up in Mayberry kind of guy. It was refreshing. I turned and introduced myself and we talked for a few minutes. He even laughed at something I said. I’m not sure it was all that funny but he was that sort of guy, looking to laugh first and ask questions later. I liked that. In my final hour I had a real goodness to gracious encounter with an agent, someone I could follow up with. Whoohoo.

Thus ended my first writing conference. I made a few friends, angered one of the only minorities in attendance, gave a security guard an opportunity to roll his eyes, had a realization that agents might be human, and maybe, just maybe, found one to take home to Mom. But that’s a topic for another post…

Friday Night Social (or my near death experience at the SCBWI conference)

A critical point on my path to getting published occurred last Spring when I attended the SCBWI conference in Redmond, WA. For those of you not familiar with SCBWI, the acronym stands for Society of Childrens Book Writers and Illustrators (rumor has it the acronym was created by the Fruitful Fellowship Of Fun Loving Folk With Exceptionally Long Org Names, also known as FFOFLFWELON).

I signed up for the Spring conference thinking 'what could be more enjoyable than hanging out for the weekend with a bunch of children's authors?' And, as an added bonus, I signed up for a ten minute private writing critique with a New York literary agent. Difficult as it is to get the attention of an agent I told myself $35 for a face to face meeting was well worth the price. A lot can happen in ten minutes. I know that and have two children to show for it.

The flyer promised the weekend would get off to a bang with a social at the hotel the evening before the conference started. This was a time to rub elbows, share a few laughs and pose for pics with like minded others. Excellent.

I arrived to discover the lobby filled with about two hundred unfamiliar faces, all of whom seemed intimately acquainted and not looking to add to their ranks. I felt like the new kid at school attending prom without a date, or a keg in the trunk.

I worked my way to one corner of the room and found solace with a few other wide-eyed souls who were neither published nor initiated into the authors' in-crowd. We comiserated on how it is cliques form, even at a gathering like this.

My luck took a turn for the better when I bumped into a cool breeze by the name of Bryan Bliss. He was the sort of guy that glides across social waters like Jesus across the dead sea. Jesus, thank god, took a liking to me and spent the next hour introducing me to his posse of new-found friends.

Along the way I met Jay Asher, one of the keynote speakers. We connected about the creative process. He seemed a kindred spirit and I suddenly felt I was in the right place after all.  Not until the next day did I discover his book THIRTEEN REASONS WHY had been on the bestseller list for over a year! Pretty cool (the book, BTW, should be required reading for all high school kids as it confronts teen suicide in a most compelling honest sort of way).

At this point I was feeling pretty good, ready to tackle anything the publishing world had to throw at me. I shared with Bryan the name of the agent I was scheduled to meet with the next day and he immediately went to work tracking her down via his informants in the crowd. Yes, I thought to myself, I'll chat her up tonight and set the seeds for our developing relationship. By this point, with each sip of my beer, I was increasingly convinced I would find a way to woo her into being my agent before the weekend was over.

Bryan returned and pointed her out. There she was, not more than ten feet from me, a real life literary agent with angelic face and Italian leather boots. With Bryan at my back I took a last sip and walked right up and said hello. I expected the light of recognition to cross her face, having read the manuscript I sent her in advance, right before she gave me a warm literary agent hug.

Instead, her eyes flicked over me like a cat's over the carcass of a mouse.  My heart pounded. Didn't she know who I was? Dan Richards. The Dan Richards. I stared at her Italian leather boots suddenly feeling like a small town kid thrown down on Broadway.

With a pleasant there-are-three-hundred-other-more-interesting-people-trying-to-get-my-attention smile she mumbled something and drifted away into the chattering, gurgling throng. I watched her disappear, my ears burning like the insides of a toaster oven.

And so I was introduced to the meat market known as a literary conference in which hundreds of unpublished authors attempt to woo, harrass or in all ways imaginable gain the attention of a smattering of industry professionals. All done in the spirit of camraderie and literary love.

In my next post, I'll describe day two of the conference in which I embarrassed myself in the restroom, was found passed out in my car and had my much anticipated agent meeting.

Cheers!

Why Start A Blog?

Why start a blog? Yes, that's a question I've been asking myself for some time, approximately three days, perhaps longer. I got thinking about how it would be interesting to document the process of getting published as a children's author while still somewhere in the middle of the process, sort of an unfolding mystery we can experience together.

This is a bit of a risk as the potential exists I shall never get published and leave you the reader wondering why you spent precious minutes reading a narrative about the little engine that could that ultimately couldn't. The thing is, I'm confident I will get published and it is only a matter of time. The thing is, I'm not confident I will ever get published and there is not enough time in all the history of the universe to prove otherwise.

You have to understand in my world I envision myself simultaneously basking in the glory of book signing notoriety and staring at my own hapless forgotten gravestone, not unlike Scrooge in the hands of Christmas future.

In the meantime, why blog? Because the story is true, the characters tightly drawn, the conflict all too real and my fingers twitch when not typing. With this in mind, the best place to start would be the beginning. Which is why I shall start in the middle and work my way outward in concentric circles blending past, present and future like a stone skipping across the pond of time. I'm not exactly sure what that means but I like skipping stones, almost as much as writing, sometimes more.

I dare you to join me. I double dog dare you. The blog has begun. Blog on brother. Blog on.