tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10366328001098587092024-03-18T21:50:17.493-07:00Dan Richards - AuthorThe carefully crafted ravings of one author's journey from obscurity to lesser obscurity.Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-84035523595551212322014-02-16T20:48:00.001-08:002014-05-31T16:36:52.431-07:00My Blog Has Moved To My Author Website!!!Hi - my blog has moved to my author website: <a href="http://www.danrichardsbooks.com/">www.danrichardsbooks.com</a>. Hope you'll stop by for a visit!<br />
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Dan<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.danrichardsbooks.com/">Here's a screen shot of my author website. Please visit!</a></td></tr>
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<br />Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-71298009743163582952011-08-11T20:55:00.000-07:002011-08-11T21:40:16.109-07:00WOW - so it's come to this. Ten months ago I started a blog chronicling my journey to being published. Two weeks ago I received a phone call from my agent telling me he had just put the finishing touches on my first book deal. My picture book CAN ONE BALLOON MAKE AN ELEPHANT FLY had found a home with a well known publisher. Just like that. The contract is forthcoming but once the ink is dry I will hold in my sweaty little hands the contractual bridge from aspiring author to published, aspiring author. Perhaps one day I'll be able to drop the aspiring part but that still seems some ways off.
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<br />Since receiving the call I keep meaning to update my blog with the AWESOME news but can't seem to find the energy or words to express myself. It all seems suddenly too simple, the process too easy, the distination too known from the outset. My blog feels like a cheap lie. One more act of insincere marketing hype in an age of insincere hype.
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<br />And yet when I started my chronicle in October I didn't know. I had no idea if my first book deal would be two months or two years away. Or further. Perhaps much further. The reality is I stuck my neck out on the brazen notion starting my story would eventually lead to a tidy ending no matter how distant. The blog was both an act of faith and a candle to keep my way lit. And a fun way to let readers experience the perplexing, vexing, unpredictable journey that every artist must navigate in their aspiration to rise from amateur to paid professional (the paid part is still a bit vexing as the book won't hit stores for at least another two years).
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<br />Two years you say? Yes, the publishing time for a picture book is similar to that of an ice age. But it will be published! And one day I will walk into a bookstore and find in the farthest back corner, high on the last shelf, all but hidden from view by some Berkeley Breathed best seller, my little book waiting for me. And I will carefully dust off its cover, secretly sign it when no one is looking and place it back on the shelf in the spot now vacated by the mysteriously missing Breathed book (what can I say? I love Berkeley but marketing is marketing).
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<br />In the meantime, a few thank yous are in order:
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<br />Paul Rodeen, literary agent. Thanks Paul for taking a chance on an unknown author at a most difficult time in your life. I appreciate the faith you've shown and the kind words, even if most of them I made up and only imagine you saying. Works for me:)
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<br />Jeff Newman, illustrator. Thank you so much for believing in the Balloon story and putting your name behind it. You were the doorway to editors that would never have taken a look otherwise. I know the final illustrations will be AMAZING!
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<br />Justin Chanda, VP of Children's Publishing at Simon & Schuster and all around nice guy. I cannot tell you what it means to have your vote of confidence. And to work with you as editor is an added bonus I'll try not to squander. Thank you thank you thank you (too many thank yous? I don't think so).
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<br />UW Writing For Children Program. I didn't even know what a picture book was until I started the UW program in the Fall of 2009. The instructors, classmates and coursework were life changing.
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<br />My Writer's Group. Thanks ladies! Honest feedback is hard to come by. Honest support even harder. We have much to celebrate. And so much more yet to come. Right?
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<br />SCBWI Western WA. Despite still not knowing what all the letters in the acronym mean, the organization is unparalleled. Attending the last two Spring conferences allowed me to meet both Paul and Justin face to face. And that has been just one of the many blessings you've brought in the last year.
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<br />And last but not least, MY FAMILY. Thank you Anna & Paul for unwittingly being the playground for my imagination. I learned more about character, plot and voice telling you bedtime stories than from any course I could have ever taken. Thanks for your sleepy-eyed attention and generous sense of humor when story lines derailed, as they so often did. And thank you Kelly for keeping the eye rolls to a minimum.
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<br />Does a book deal mean this blog has run its course? I don't think so. I have no intention of retiring it just yet. I hope to have much more to tell while learning the rigors of bringing a book to publication and as I continue to chase after the next book deal, and the next...
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<br />Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-72462827670329077622011-06-13T23:11:00.000-07:002011-06-14T09:34:15.451-07:00Some Enchanted EveningHas anyone ever considered the off chance that birds fly because the earth and its inhabitants take periodic plunging drops, that perhaps birds don’t so much rise as refuse to fall? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>Yes, smarty pants, I know full well the answer is clear as a daisy but I for one have been through enough plunges to wonder if perhaps there is some starker purpose.<br /><br />Now to get back to the story. Just before my manuscript went out to publishers I attended the Spring SCBWI conference in Redmond. If you’re not familiar with SCBWI it’s the acronym for Society of Creepy Bearded Winged Intruders, or something like that only more related to writing for children. Anyway, I decided my one goal for the conference was to meet an illustrator. Why? I don't know but it somehow seemed like a good idea.<br /><br />By late afternoon of the first day my butt was tired from keeping a chair planted on the floor so I went wandering the halls. In doing so, I discovered the room where a juried art show was taking place. I found before me the artwork of over 50 aspiring picture book illustrators. It was an amazing sight to find so much talent crammed into one little room. I wandered about for an hour taking in all manner of fairy, critter and childish flights of fancy.<br /><br />One portfolio in particular caught my eye. The images had a Berkley Breathed quality with oversized, whimsical eyes that seemed to jump from the page. I felt a connection I can’t describe except to say I wanted one of my stories to look like THAT.<br /><br />I picked up the artist’s card and that evening made the bold move of emailing her. I attached two of my stories and asked if she’d be game to take a look at them. She replied shortly thereafter that she loved them both. We met the next day and had a smashing time talking all things children's books. By the end of our meeting we had agreed that she would do three full color sketches for one of the stories and, in return, I would send the sketches to my agent in hopes he’d like them enough to pick her up as a client as well as send out the manuscript and sketches together to publishers.<br /><br />This might not seem like any big deal to the lay person but in the world of picture book publishing writers and illustrators are forbidden from even loitering on the same street corner let alone actually working together on a spec project. But I figured what the hey, I’d rather go down in a blaze of glory of my own making then die a slow death waiting for someone else to jumpstart my career.<br /><br />Over the course of the next month the illustrator and I conversed back and forth over her preliminary sketches discussing everything from overall concept to the most insignificant details. Despite the old adage that authors and illustrators should never mix we had a great time and got along fabulously.<br /><br />At long last the day came she sent me the three final illustrations (I've posted one below for your viewing pleasure). I immediately sent them off to my agent. For five long years (ok days) we waited to hear back. This gave me plenty of time question every aspect of the plan including my choice of illustrator, the story we selected, every suggestion I had made to her along the way and, of course, I became convinced the final product was a big load of crap that only I could be blind enough to have encouraged.<br /><br />Finally, I received a short note from the agent telling me he loved the drawings and was excited to work with the project. I, of course, knew from the start that would be his reaction. Uh, well maybe 'knew' is a bit strong of a word. Anyway, he said he'd form a submission plan as soon as we knew the outcome of the project already out (which I described in my last post).<br /><br />My story is now pretty much up to date but still without any sort of thrilling conclusion. Perhaps I'll hear something more tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. Or...<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617957887949020210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmpmakNdxf_AGw0vWMFMiWagJdwRFhXRqPYyV-gwgfwfQN-h6b-9MkjWH3Ut_mx7HNG9PZoqVTJn23pMkoJC236qCvCQM9_ghd87qMio6QcWzjzMrHd8GV_bDAmCbomm26-uw9vzeqWg/s400/bathtub+photo+copy.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></div>Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-23449565109303894532011-06-01T23:36:00.000-07:002011-06-01T23:40:22.468-07:00Cloudy With A Chance Of SunAs stated in the previous post, things took a dramatic turn for the potentially better when my agent hooked one of my manuscripts up with an illustrator he represents. The illustrator took an immediate liking to the text and agreed to do several preliminary drawings.<br />
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Let me be clear. The idea of marrying an illustrator with a manuscript prior to submitting to publishers is taboo in the industry. Publishers want absolute control over the pairing of a manuscript to the artist of their choice. To be so bold as to make that decision for them is just not done. You might liken it to a young couple getting married before the boy asks the father for her hand in marriage. You can see where that tends to go.<br />
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However, all rules are meant to be broken and I'm more than willing to risk a professional punch in the nose on the off chance it might get me a book deal. Also, the agent gave examples of previous successes he'd had using this secret tactic (which thanks to me is not so secret anymore). Anyway, it was good enough for me.<br />
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Two weeks later (two weeks in the children's publishing world is like a blink of the eye in the real world) the illustrator sent three full color sketches. WOW! They were surprising and absolutely wonderful (I don’t use the word wonderful much but we are talking children’s picture books here). I printed the sketches out and carried them with me everywhere. They were like sea creatures I had brought home in a bucket and couldn’t stop staring at. I showed them to anyone and everyone. I probably showed them to you, if not I will the next time you’re within half a state. <br />
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I lay in bed that night thinking about how someone, a very talented someone with multiple publishing credits, had spent hours giving their creative energy to something I had written. Tears flowed silently (silently because I wasn’t about to wake up my wife to tell her I had cried AND used the word wonderful all in the same day, I may be a budding children’s author but I’m still a man, gosh darn it). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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Shortly thereafter the agent sent the manuscript and accompanying illustrations out to a select list of editors, including several I knew by reputation and would never have dared approach on my own. I suppose that's the power of having an agent, your work gets slipped through doors cracked open that otherwise would be slammed shut, politely of course with a genuine spirit of children's lit esprit de corps. <br />
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He prepared me it could take anywhere from two weeks to two months to hear something back. Two days later he called to tell me two of the editors had shown early interest. Seriously? He cautioned me this in no way guaranteed a sale but was definitely a positive early sign. I asked him how soon I could cash the check. He reminded me there was no check and please stop asking. Yes, perhaps I was getting a little ahead of myself, the Hawaii plans would have to wait.<br />
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The next day an offer arrived. Not really. That would be much too simple and hardly worthy of this fine blog. Rather in the spirit of true drama the twists and turns just keep coming. And coming. And I’ll explain more in the next post…Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-64842076191898396922011-05-08T23:15:00.000-07:002011-05-24T22:39:47.517-07:00It's Always Darkest Before It's Pitch Black<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I've been so busy getting nowhere the last several months I neglected updating the blog. Perhaps because I kept thinking if I waited I’d have something worth writing about. Perhaps because I didn’t want to admit publicly I had nothing to write about. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Let’s face it, after what seemed like such a promising start with the agent of my dreams, everything petered out to nothing. Our romance quickly went from giddy school girl talks to not returning my calls or emails. For a little while my heart beat with the excitement of new love. After a few short weeks I returned to having no pulse at all. By January I realized my writing career was dead. Worse than dead really since I'd have to start the whole process over again in finding an agent.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Not one to be bitter I sent out a shotgun blast of query letters to agents near and far. When I say ‘not bitter’ I mean extra special bitter like the microbrew only less appetizing and more upsetting to the stomach. I received back a handful of polite rejections letting me know they could care less. New picture book authors are not in high demand these days. I got the hint and stopped submitting. It wasn’t worth the cost of postage. Or ego.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Then one day a few weeks ago I picked up the phone and dialed my former dream agent’s number. I don’t know why. We hadn’t spoken for months. It was a spontaneous, reckless sort of decision, the same sort of decision making that led to the perm I sported in my wedding photos (a perm, really?). I just wanted to know what had I done? Was it this blog? Perhaps he hadn’t appreciated my Mayberry references.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">To my surprise, he picked up. To my greater surprise he recognized my name. And then he dropped the bombshell. His father had died a few months ago. He was just now getting back to work. After losing my Mom two years ago I felt for what he was going through and told him so.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He went on to explain he probably couldn’t be of much help to me at the moment. He said he’d understand if I wanted to submit my work elsewhere. I told him I had. And had the scars to prove it. He understood my plight, a familiar one these days for picture book authors. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">We were about to hang up when he mentioned an illustrator of his who was looking for a project, an illustrator with multiple publishing credits. He told me if I’d email my manuscripts again he’d forward them on right away. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I did as asked and true to his word he forwarded them on that afternoon. The next morning the illustrator emailed to say he loved one of the stories and wanted to provide sketches for use in marketing it to publishers. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">In a period of 24 hours my writing life returned from the valley of despair to the twisting goat trail of hope. The summit seemed once again within reach, kinda, sorta, almost. <br />
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There's more to tell but it'll have to wait 'til next time...</div>Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-7577502224092264352011-01-23T23:14:00.000-08:002011-05-09T22:17:04.756-07:00While I'm Off The Subject Lets Talk About My DaughterFor those of you yet without a child of your own I recommend you immediately go out and get yourself one. They're pricey and they eat a lot and they don't usually come house broken but without one your life is not only incomplete but right side up.<br />
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At the moment my house is perfectly in order and entirely upside down as it should be with a teenager in the house and a younger brother to give the teenager fits worthy of her own reality show.<br />
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The real joy, however, is the moment by moment realization that she is smarter, better looking and has an infinitely brighter future than I ever dreamed of at the same age. It also means she has a boyfriend.<br />
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Now I'm not saying boyfriends are bad. I'm just saying they are of the devil and should be exercised by a priest with a bottle of holy water and a castrating tool. I'm even willing to help just to show my support for the church. I can be a bit of a religious zealot like that.<br />
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To make matters worse he's a nice young man. By young man I mean one still croaking his way into manhood and still small enough to carry comfortably in a knapsack. Not that I have. He's too squirmy. And smart enough not to come within ten feet of the sack.<br />
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The real problem is that as my daughter continues to mature she acts less and less like a wind up toy that giggles and walks in circles and more like a woman. You know what I mean, a highly intelligent whirling dirvish that makes me dizzy enough to fall down even after I've already fallen down.<br />
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How did this happen? Where did the little girl go that once married me in the living room and it wasn't the least bit weird. What happened to tickle fights and cuddle time while watching Sponge Bob? God I miss Sponge Bob. Maybe not so much Sponge Bob but the moments that went with it.<br />
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Don't give me that crap about kids growing up. The next thing you'll tell me is I have to let her go. Give her room to grow wings and fly. You can kiss my fatherly arse with all that nonsense. Time is meant to stand still. I know that. I'm living proof. Why is everyone else moving?<br />
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But time doesn't mind me and the boyfriend keeps coming over and its really quite annoying. Despite my better judgment I even like the kid. Sadly, there will be no 911 calls, no charges for assault and battery and no documentary about the disgruntled dad who tried to turn back time and got 20 to life for his efforts.<br />
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I was thumbing through some songs this evening that I wrote a few years ago. One was apparently in anticipation of this very day. It's called December Into June. I apparently was much more mature before my daughter reached puberty. I leave you with the lyrics. They convey the patience and understanding I so desperately lack at the moment.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Do you remember when</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You were just an ember</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I held you and I loved you through</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The dark days of December</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">But you keep getting older</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Each day a little bolder</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">One day you will fly away</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And leave me far behind and say</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hey now don’t wait around</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘cause I’m not coming down</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hey now don’t wait around</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘cause I’m not coming down</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don’t hurry to be older</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don’t believe it’s any better</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don’t climb out of the hole you’re in</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Just to find a bigger hole</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I see in your expression</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You’ve yet to form the question</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The thing that will define you when</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The world around you burns</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hey now don’t wait around</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘cause I’m not coming down</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hey now don’t wait around</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘cause I’m not coming down<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you looked any better</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You’d impact the weather</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And December would be changed to June</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I could not be prouder </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Or sing your praises louder </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Or worry harder every time</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I watch you stepping out</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hey now don’t wait around</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘cause I’m not coming down</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hey now don’t wait around</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">‘cause I’m not coming I'm not coming down<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></span></i></div>Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-50943125304183182432010-11-25T11:50:00.000-08:002011-05-09T22:17:42.512-07:00Wandering the woods. Again.<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">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.</span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">These Woods</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">These </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> deep</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> deep</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> woods</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">with brown brittle leaves</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> windswept</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> strewn</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">and birds </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> upon birds</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> upon birds</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">singing in their infinite joy</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> and</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> daily</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> chatter</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">These woods like a </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> darkened </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> womb</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">bid me enter and</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> remember</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> and</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> remember</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Our lives a tangled twitter</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> unfinished clutter</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> impossible beauty</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">ravaged and torn</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> reborn</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> beneath an ever changing sky</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> and deepest night</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">'til light returns to surest light</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> beginning</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> where we end</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">the wordless and the wilfull and the</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> ever present</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> morning song</div></div>Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-46955255468983639332010-11-14T23:26:00.000-08:002011-05-09T22:24:46.850-07:00Love 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.<br />
<br />
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). <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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: ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">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.</i>’ 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. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I then described the two manuscripts I was sending and<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> ended with a brief description of my background, including ‘</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">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?’</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">On that note I pressed send and for the second time waved my submission goodbye. Seven weeks later I got back the following reply: ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">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?’</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">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: ‘<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">SHAKINGLY, SPEWINGLY MAD</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> attempts to capture the volatile nature of a preschool friendship gone bad and, ultimately, redeemed. And <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I AM NOT A DUCK</span> is a Boynton meets Breathed story of a duck with a playful imagination who refuses to be stifled by reality.’</span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">A mere two weeks later I returned from vacation to the following email:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hello Dan, </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">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.’ </span></i></div><br />
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).<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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…Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-26190430327158264012010-10-20T23:38:00.000-07:002011-05-09T22:27:37.987-07:00Why 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Art is equal parts inspiration and self loathing bound together by a continual fear of rejection. </i><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Why do we create art? Because the artist is and always will be within each of us.Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-76074246121633583022010-10-18T23:00:00.000-07:002011-05-09T22:31:19.198-07:00When Romance Goes Wrong - or what Young Shakespeare In Love didn't prepare me forMy 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
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.Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-88230558255072665372010-10-12T22:53:00.000-07:002011-05-09T22:44:35.393-07:00Day Two of the SCBWI ConferenceDay 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. <br />
<br />
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.). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently it’s a crime to fall asleep at a childrens author conference. Who knew?<br />
<br />
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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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…Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-45263737249359177472010-10-06T00:19:00.000-07:002011-05-09T22:51:34.151-07:00Friday 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). <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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).<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Cheers!Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1036632800109858709.post-88549154677629831552010-10-01T23:07:00.000-07:002011-05-09T22:53:38.450-07:00Why 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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I dare you to join me. I double dog dare you. The blog has begun. Blog on brother. Blog on.Dan Richards - Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08226670096146723202noreply@blogger.com0