My first Query letter was sent out!

Last Sunday I finally scrapped together a few hours to write a personalized query letter to the agent I met at the Writer-in-Residence meeting. Waiting is the hard part, but I am somewhat patient because I know this is a process that requires skill and hard work, not just luck. I also joined the site querytracker.com which was daunting, because I read some success stories that revealed the writers sent HUNDREDS of query letters before landing an agent! Yes, that was me screaming. Sending 175 queries would take me years (that was one writer's experience.) Suddenly I don't feel so patient...

Met an agent

The meeting with Deborah went so well. She gave me a great critique, and I have since completed a revision of my manuscript. Here are some of the things she wrote in my critique letter:
"a strong and distinctive voice
a compelling coming of age story
a richly evocative description of Matilda's world
a sympathetic protagonist"
I also met an agent at the second meeting, and I'm working on a query letter.

Preparation for THE Meeting

I talked to my friend Fern who happens to have a masters in literature, and who is also pursuing her doctorate in education at the moment, and she gave me a few tips for the meeting. The tips were quite good and I'll share:
truly listen to what the author has to say
expect some kind of critique
do not ask for autographs for your copies of her numerous books
let her lead the meeting and discussion
I thought these were really useful tips. To prepare for the meeting, I am going to re-read my manuscript, read one of her books, and try to pinpoint what genre my book is. I am also going to research my target audience based on other published works of the same genre. I guess I have alot of work to do!

OMG!!!!!! I have a meeting with the Writer in Residence Program Author!!!!

Remember when I told you that I'm following writer Deborah Cooke from the Writer in Residence Program? I submitted my manuscript for her review, but I was not expecting much because she had a ton of submissions from the writers that follow her, so I thought my competition was stiff. Well today I'm just minding my own business when the phone rings, and I decide to answer it. Why not, right? Michael introduces himself and tells me that Deb would like to meet with me to discuss my work, and that I was selected out of a large number of submissions! I went histerical, blabbed on about stupidity to Michael and made the appointment for November 18th. I hope I don't make a total fool of myself to a professional writer like Deb. I wonder what comes up when you search "meeting with author" on the web?

Between Here and Innocence, Chapter One

Any comments or feedback appreciated on Chapter One of my first manuscript. Enjoy!

I grew up in an area of Toronto, north of Lawrence Avenue just beside the end of a highway called Allen Road. Not much ever changed in the area over the years save for a plot of flowers planted near Varna Junior Public School, located on Varna Road. The government added a water sprinkler system right beside the flowers a few years later, and when I was growing up all the area children could be found playing in this water, especially when it got really hot outside.
The idea behind the water sprinkler system is something like a touch-activated fire hydrant. You walk up on one of the dog days of summer, press a button not unlike one in a restaurant washroom, and water flows out of the attached pipe and sprays around and around for about five minutes. This water pipe was painted red, red on top of red, red on top of rust. The grass was bright green around the pipe, the kind that doesn’t hurt to stand on with your bare feet and toes.
I wanted to stand under that pipe and none of them boys was going to stop me.
“Hey, Matilda,” Rufus yelled. “Whatcha doin’ here, come to get wet? Matilda? Matilda? Why you think you so big, you can’t answer me? You but one grade above me, actin’ so big big.”
I ignored Rufus. He was easy to ignore, him being in grade seven and not sprouted up like the rest of the boys in my grade. His little brother waddled around him, diaper hanging, a thick line of snot dribbling down from his nose.
“Why don’t you take that dirty little brat down to your mama and clean his face? Ain’t you been noticing he need a good cleaning?”
Rufus looked at Little Brother, then back at me. “My mama said don’t bring him down there till I pushed the water fifteen times and I only got to four so I hafta wait.”
Matilda was not too pleased to hear this information from Rufus because she was hot as hell and she wanted under that water.
“Rufus,” Matilda softened her voice, “have you tried that new Slurpee flava Tropical Rush? It shur is good. I had one just this morning and my tongue still blue, see?” Matilda stuck out her tongue to show how much she had enjoyed the Slurpee. Her tongue was blue enough to get Rufus licking his chops. “It was so good I kept on slurping, brain freeze and all.”
Matilda had Rufus’s full attention now. He had even stopped catching the water in his mouth and spitting it onto a nearby wooden post that separated the flower bed from the water sprinkler.
Matilda pretended to concentrate on the red plastic barrette that was clipped on the end of one of her braids. “I think I’m going to get me a new Tropical Rush Slurpee and drink it all up in one gulp.” Then Matilda turned around swift and sure and started to walk to the store.
Rufus chased after her and in a few steps was walking alongside Matilda.
“What you want?” Matilda asked Rufus.
“You going to save me some, Matilda? Huh? I’ll let you play my game.”
The game Rufus was referring to was a tiny plastic box with a picture of a car inside with holes cut out in the paper where the five plastic balls were supposed to go once you shook it around. Matilda had already put the little plastic balls in the holes that made an outline of a car once, and it had been enough for her.
“Hmm...,” Matilda feigned interest, “that does sound good.”
“C’mon,” Rufus begged.
Matilda stopped walking and faced Rufus. “I got it!” she said. “How about you go get me my Slurpee, and I’ll give you a sip? It’s too hot for me to take such a long walk.”
Rufus immediately stuck out his hand for the money and Matilda dropped $1.35 in dimes and nickels in his palm. Rufus went up to Little Brother and dangled his car toy in front of him. “C’mon Little Brother, you can play with my car if you wait in the flowers, then you can have a sip of my Slurpee when I get back.”
Little Brother followed Rufus into the chicken wire gate, lured by the twirling box. Rufus pointed a finger at Little Brother and said sternly like Mama, “Now, you move an I gonna whup you.”
In a flash Rufus was a bobbing streak of brown skin and blue shorts. Matilda knew she wasn’t going to get any of her Slurpee—Rufus would finish it in one gulp outside of the 7-Eleven. What Matilda really wanted was right in front of her in the form of a long, cool spray of the sprinkler, beautiful and shining water against her skin. She kicked off her sandals and stood under the pipe. The first few sprays gave her the chills and she got goose bumps, but soon after that she was jumping in the air touching the drops with her fingertips. The water went around and around until Matilda, in her sister’s bathing suit and old shorts, was soaking wet.
In the distance Matilda could see menacing gray clouds, and the sound of low rumbling traveled along the grass right up to Matilda’s ears. She picked up her sandals, slung them over her shoulder, and started for home. Mama would skin her behind if she didn’t get the freshly washed clothes in off the line, and she was no fool. Standing under a metal pipe when thunder and lightning are coming would certainly warrant a good smack from Mama. The sound of thunder cracked in the distance, then a few seconds later another bolt of lightning shot down to the ground in a hurry. Big fat drops of rain started falling slowly, one at a time. This suited Matilda just fine because she personally thought that the big fat drops were better than the quick little drops that get you wet right away.
She surveyed the houses as she walked along. They all looked exactly the same so the kids called the houses by the things each house didn’t have, or the things each house had but shouldn’t. The house with no curtains. The house with a lot of cats. The house that smelled like fish. The house with that crazy girl. That was Matilda’s house. Not that she was crazy, but people had a way of talking about other people’s family.
She walked quietly up to the aluminum door and pushed it open. The smells of home came wafting up—a mixture of hair relaxer, fried plantain, and old, greasy furniture. She walked straight through, not making a noise on the peeling old vinyl floor. She pushed open the back aluminum door and immediately started taking down the freshly washed clothes off the line. One by one she took off the old wooden clothes pins, rhythmically, until all the stiff, clean clothes were placed in the laundry basket. Once inside she brought the clothes upstairs and started folding them on Malika’s bed.
Malika was Matilda’s sister—half-sister really, but nobody called it that. Malika and Dudley had the same father, and Vina and Trina had their father. All were family just the same, and Matilda had never thought of her brother and sisters as any different. Sometimes, though, she wished her mama had had another baby with her father so that she would not sometimes feel like an only child in her house. Matilda did have four half-brothers and -sisters from her father in Jamaica who she would one day visit. Sometimes when she was in a foul mood, she would yell at Dudley and Malika, “You wait and see, I’m going to live with my real family back home and then it’s bye-bye, bye-bye.” Matilda would accompany this with a wave, fingertips to palm, until Malika would tickle her or Dudley would pretend to chase her around the house.
Matilda could hear the rain coming down, and she kind of liked it. “I like you rain, but don’t you wash away my house.” She was about to sing a song she heard on the radio, when she heard the front aluminum door slam.
“Tildy!” Mama screamed. “Tildy...I done told you to peel the corn, what you been doing girl?”
Matilda ran down the stairs, answering quickly, “Yes Mama, I got caught up bringin’ the clothes in from the rain. Yur hair look beautiful, Mama.”
Malika and Trina came in behind Mama with garbage bags tied over their hair.
“Can I see—” Matilda reached up to Mama’s hairdo. Mama slapped away her hand, chiding Matilda.
“Now, you know better than to touch my hair now that I had it done. Bad enough it’s rainin’. Go peel that corn, Tildy, we got to eat.”
Trina came up behind Mama. “I’ll help you, Tildy.” Trina loved food, and anything to do with the shopping, preparing, cooking, and most of all, the eating of food. Trina sat down at the kitchen table while Matilda brought her the corn. Trina started peeling each corn on the cob and putting the husks in a basket by her feet. Matilda studied Trina’s new hairdo. One side was crimped and pulled up while the other side was brushed down and spiky with a bit of burgundy added. The overall effect was not bad, but Matilda had already seen it months ago on a bunch of girls around Varna.
“I like your hair too, Trina.”
“Really?” Trina asked. “Mama said I should change it, but I not so sure now. I been savin’ up for extensions but now I hafta wait, seeing as how Collette cut my hair too short at the back.” Trina turned her head to show Matilda, and it was indeed too short for extensions. Matilda looked closer.
“Trina, I think Collette left a little relaxer back there, hold on a minute.” Matilda grabbed a serviette and gently wiped from one side to the other. Matilda gasped when she looked at the serviette, and screamed when she caught sight of Trina’s head.
“What you screaming at? Tell me right now, Matilda.”
Before Matilda could answer, Trina was running to the hallway mirror, barreling into Mama and Malika on the way.
“I...can’t...see anything....” Trina’s fat neck twisted right and left, but try as she might she could not see the back of her head. Mama was by her side in an instant.
“Oh dear child, that Collette left relaxer in your hair and now it too short.”
Trina screamed, and Mama told her, “Hush up, we can fix it.”
What Mama did not tell Trina was that not only did she have no hair, but her scalp was a mess of angry white and red blisters. Mama turned to Matilda and Malika.
“Matilda, do Mama a favor and go and get some chamomile and licorice seed from the garden. Malika, you help Trina wash her head and I gonna make a remedy.”
Mama started for the kitchen, picking up the little aloe plant that sat on the living room window sill on the way. Trina, sniffing, had already started to feel better, positive that Mama could fix anything wrong in the world with one of her remedies. Matilda put on her windbreaker with the hood and her sandals, and walked out into the rain, aluminum door banging behind her. She walked quickly back to the flower garden, this time not noticing the houses on the way or the cars going by. She was half walking and half running and before Matilda knew it she was at the gate of the flower garden.
Chicken wire and pine posts separated this oasis from the rest of the public housing. A rusty lock hung from the latch, but it was never locked. Many neighborhood gardeners prided themselves on the beautiful flowers and crops growing in their designated rows. There were roses, sunflowers, daisies, tulips, daffodils, and peonies. Others grew vegetables like carrots and cucumbers. Old Mr. Wilson grew herbs, spices, and “helping flowers,” as he called it. That was where Matilda was to get the chamomile and licorice seed, but not before she made a cursory stop at Mai Lee’s raspberry bush. Mai Lee’s raspberry bush was all the children’s favorite, but Mai Lee was very stingy with her raspberries. She would allocate one berry per begging child, no more, even if you pleaded. The raspberry taste would explode in your mouth, and the raspberry juice would fill every taste bud. Some kids even said it was better than candy.
Matilda looked around and saw that Mai Lee was nowhere to be found, probably because it was raining, so the coast was clear for Matilda to get a berry or two, or three. Matilda lifted up her hood so she could see better, and crept up to the bush. She could already see that Rufus’s little brother had beat her to it. Matilda was sure that there would be no berries left by the time that little brat was done with it. She approached the bush, putting on a stern voice.
“Hey brat, git outta there. You not supposed to be eatin’ those.”
Little Brother did not move. She studied him now. All that was sticking out of the bush was his two stubby little legs, wet with rain. His diaper was soaked and sagging down, heavy and soiled. His arms and head were deep in the bush, and Matilda could only see a little of his back.
“He’s dead,” Matilda said out loud. “Oh dear Lord, he’s dead,” she whispered to herself. She picked up a stick and poked his bare foot, gently at first, then harder. All of a sudden Matilda could hear the voices of Mai Lee and old Mr. Wilson approaching. She dropped her stick and ran to the helping flowers.
“Hi Mr. Wilson, Mama asked if I could have a chamomile flower for Trina’s head,” Matilda asked.
“Yes, yes, just tell her to only boil it for a minute for head huts, or else it don’t work no more.” Mr. Wilson snapped off a few flowers that looked like little daisies, and handed them to Matilda. “Now off you go, you gonna get an ailment with the rain on you and all. Put on your hood girl.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matilda responded, then put on her hood and ran off as fast as she could through the grass. As she reached the part where the grass ended and the sidewalk began, she heard Mai Lee’s blood-curdling scream, and heard Mr. Wilson holler, “Oh Lord, someone call an ambulance!”

research is so much fun!

I'm being sarcastic, obviously, but it needs to be done. The research, not the sarcasm. My second manuscript requires research, which is more work and not as fun as writing. I've also been following Deb Cooke's Writer in Residence program which is informative and entertaining. She writes romance, 41 titles actually, so it's an understatement to say he is accomplished. You can follow her blog found uner the toronto public library, and she is presnting again in November. Can't wait to go hear her again. Happy writing everyone, may the word be with you!

went to "Word on the Street"

So I went to a book lovers street fair last Sunday, and it left my head spinning. I was lucky enough to hear part of a lecture on publishing, and I was left feeling inspired although a bit nervous about all of the work ahead of me. When I first sat down a grey-haired woman in rain boots told me to "keep your distance." She was hogging an empty chair beside her with her plastic bag and I wondered if she was homeless, taking the "starving artist" thing to a new level. There were also alot of book nerds going for the academic look- leather satchels, black-framed glasses, and intellectual frowns. I didn't look like that because I was aiming for casual young writer with an element of almost attractive, inspiring other writers to exclaim "she has a certain je ne sais quois about her, almost like she doesn't know she's good looking." I think I achieved it.

can't beat that feeling

I feel inspiration to continue writing my second book now that my first manuscript is off doing something. For awhile I was stuck because I was so worried about my first manuscript at the editor's, but now that I'm moving forward, I feel an urge to return to writing. I can't wait for the day when my book is published and I can call myself a writer! A real, paid, not-a-hobby, writer. I want to derive income from my work, and I want someone to invest in me because he or she believes in me. I want to walk into a book store and run my fingers along the raised font of my own book, as I do with other books. I have never seen anyone else finger books, but I must not be the only one. I have all my life to get published, but I hope it happens sooner than later.

I was scared, but I submitted my manuscript

Anyone who has completed a manuscript knows it is like giving birth to a baby, and yesterday I had to drop off my "baby" to the library for their writer in residence program. I was very nervous passing the envelope sealed with surgical tape to the librarian. I hoped she would treat it well, and I get the impression that she was going to ensure the manuscript got to the other library that was holding the program. I asked her why the library heads decided to have the writer in residence program at the northern location, and she told me they "take turns." Next year the library will host the program downtown, one block from where I live, which would be great if I wasn't moving close to the northern location next year. What timing!

I can read the "Books" section of the newspaper again

I don't know why, but it was almost too painful to read the "books" section of the paper when I was just sitting on my manuscript. Now that I am taking action to get published I can once again turn the page on my once favorite section. Today I wrote my name on the top of the section with the caption "star author" below, just for fun and maybe wishful thinking. I also printed my manuscript for the library today too. It was over 300 pages and I ran out of ink! I want to be published so bad....

Someone's excited!

It's me everyone, I'm crazy excited. I finished my edit approval and I spoke to the lit section woman in charge of submissions, and she's going to look out for my manuscript. When I told her about my manuscript's sexual content, she told me that harlequin has a new division called "Spice" which would publish such content. Now if I could just get an interview with the harlequin agent...

Wow can I procrastinate!

I amaze myself how I can procrastinate. I have an edited manuscript that I need to read through and approve changes, but I've managed to put it off for a whole week. I did however find a place to send the edited manuscript for an agent to read. Our reference library has a month of focus on authors, including reps from harlequin novels. My novel can loosely be considered a romance I guess, so I think it's worth a try. Wish me luck!

I got my edited manuscript!

I am so excited, for two reasons. First, I got the finished product and I was not scammed on the internet. Second, my manuscript is cleaned up and ready for the second round of re-writing! The editor gave me some solid advice on how I could improve the product, and at the same time I grew as a writer. She told in not so many words that a novel does not have to be accurate in my personal truth at the expense of the overall story. In the novel I was describing how pre-teen girls engage in sexual activity, based on truth (I can provide names.) She told me that although this was true, it was "jarring" for the reader, and distracting from the story. Anyway, what this means is I have alot of work to do to fix this problem. She also suggested I join a work shop to help refine the work- I'll include her positive comments on the next blog for you to read. I have to pack for the cottage, long weekend here I come!

I hope I haven't been had...

So I paid in advance for all the editing, which was supposed to be completed on August 19th, 2009. Here we are on August 31st, and still no completed manuscript. I am trying really hard not to jump to any conclusions, but I am getting really worried that I've been scammed. There's nothing I can do about it now, other than to have faith in human kind. If I do get the manuscript back, the next step is to read the whole thing which should take some time. In the meantime I've been visualizing myself at book signings as though it's a done deal and I'm published. Positive thinking can't hurt, and it's exciting to dream big!

the stigma of self-publishing

I don't know what it is, but it seems I have an aversion to self-publishing. I guess I want to believe that someone thinks my manuscript is good enough to publish. Last week I read an article in the Toronto Star Newspaper (I got it free) that featured a cookbook author who self -published for $45 000! She mananged to get her book in Chapters, and instead of $1 a book profit (the industry standard) she gets more. She has to sell alot of books just to get her money back, never mind a profit. But that's not why I write. I'd love to make money on my book, but I'm more in love with the notion of being a tortured writer, slaving away in solitude at my messy desk...

If only I was Donald Trump...

Maybe then my husband would read my book. He's read the first 10 pages out of 285 pages but not a page more, and I've just given up trying to get him to support me. I pretty much am on my own when it comes to critical analysis of my manuscript; I guess that's why so much hinges on what my editor is going to say. I get the polished product on Monday, and according to her there will be a few back and forths before our contract is considered complete. I found her on an online editor's network, and signed with her after she sent me a sample edit. I wrote the first chapter in first person, than smoothly transitioned to third person. Her sample edit changed the first chapter to third for consistency. I chose to reject this change, and I imagine that what I get on Monday will contain much of the same thing. We will work through it together, and I am sure that I will ultimately get a good product. Here's hoping...

a friend of a friend

It seems that I don't actually know anyone who has been published, other than a co-worker's father-in-law getting published. It must be so rare that I don't know a single person. Either that or there are not that many writers out there.

Editor's E-Mail

Here's a segment of my editor's e-mail. I asked her if I'm delusional about getting published, and here's what she said:
"Oh, I definitely think it can get published. I would like to say *will* get published, but who can understand the vagaries of the publishing business. So many bad things get published, and some good things fall between the cracks. But if I could lay odds, I'd say with the right submission package to draw the right attention, and a willingness on your part to do the heavy lifting of getting representation (which is so much more work than people expect), you will get it published. Your ability to write one good book and get started on another, I don't think your work ethic or follow-through will be a factor. And you'd be surprised how often that is the case. People write a good book, and then they're done. A few rejections and they loose the will to keep pursuing it. But as for quality, I think it's legitimately publishable."
I'm super excited! By representation she means an agent, and that's true, it is alot of work. It took me years to write this book and I want to see it through to the end, what ever that may be.

The After Show on MTV

I'm really into the After Show, especially when I'm trying to write a few pages of my new book on finding your romantic match. The show meets my a.d.d needs by skipping from random topic to random topic; none of them too intense or deep. Dan Levy, co-host to Jessie and son of Eugene Levy wears great glasses and can appreciate a good pair of Prada studded shoes. It's almost like they're friends of mine, you know what I mean? One day I'll tell you about the bff I met in the grocery parking lot in Huntsville. I wish I could see her again...

what's wrong with me?

why can't I get a picture up? Maybe that's why I don't have a cell phone, just a pager. People like me are not meant to have gadgets. Although I love my lappy (that's my lap top.) Actually, I wish I had a mac or apple. The laptop with the apple on it, whatever it's called. At least mine is white.

First thing first- set font to Times New Roman

Trying to figure out this blog thing and put my picture up with my profile. I want to get a picture that screams author, but I don't have any frosted angled face pics on hand. I do want to promise all readers that I will attemp not to be sarcastic. So often writers get mean, and we're all friends here, right?
Where I'm at: I wrote a book about a young girl (12) from the projects, and the summer she will never forget. It's based on stories from the 'hood I heard while growing up close to one of the most dangerous housing developments in the city. At the moment it's at the editor's in Missouri, and I'm waiting for more feedback from her. So far she definetely thinks I could get published. Do you think she's saying that because I just paid her $3000 US funds?