As the title to this entry suggests, I've had a busy week. Mix in some insomnia, a handful of really horrible headaches, and more than 3,400 written words and we've pretty much touched on all the other fun stuff. (Actually, the writing is a really good thing. I hit my goal for last weekend and plan on attempting to hit another one when I'm done here.)
Let's do it count-down style:
(4)
Due to holes in our Employee Handbook (and a huge increase in hiring over the past eight months), I was able to take Columbus Day off. Hence the three-day weekend and the four-day work week. Despite it being a full day shorter, I felt like this week was longer than most have been. Because I dedicated part of that three-day weekend to writing and the other parts to spending as much time as possible with Matt (and yet another part to freelance work), my sleep schedule got screwed. Hard.
This whole week made me remember another reason why I've been so creatively unproductive the past seven years: My brain is most creative at night. I produce all my best stuff after twilight. Midnight, 1 AM, 2 AM... bring it. This is when my brain is most active, when I get my best ideas. And this doesn't only apply to the actual act of writing. This whole week I barely got any sleep because even though I was in bed, my brain wouldn't shut off. I kept getting ideas for things I wanted to write. So I've been dragging myself out of bed and into the living room at 2:30 or even 3:30 in the morning, and writing down everything that I've been thinking all night. Just random ideas... chicken scratch. And you'd think that just getting it out and down on paper would help, but oh no... No... the next hour or so is spent thinking about how I would actually approach the idea. I can't stop it.
Hence, the longest 4-day work week in the world. Completed on less than 15 hours of sleep, I'd say.
(3)
I currently have three contracts in the works: one novel (the one I was super excited about a few weeks ago that my director told me probably wouldn't happen), one memoir (about a young Jewish girl teaching in the Bronx—the total opposite of Freedom Writers and everything along those lines), and one nonfiction coffee-table-ish type book (called Kitchen Things, it features the photos on this site and really awesome historical and entertaining narrative about each utensil). The author/photographer of Kitchen Things is actually the younger brother of the late Pulitzer-Prize winning poet, W.D. Snodgrass. Pretty freakin' cool, in my opinion.
Nothing's confirmed until the contracts are returned and signed, but everyone seems pretty content with the deals, so hopefully they'll all work out and I'll have three additional acquisitions to my name. Today I received a submission from an agent representing the former pastry chef of one of Michael Mina's restaurants. Michael Mina is a Michelin-star rated chef in California and Vegas and he would even provide a blurb for the cover of the book. I'm reviewing it next week. If it's written well, I'll pitch that one, too.
(2)
I was reaching for two of something to finish this title, and it occurred to me that during the hour and a half it took me to get home today, I couldn't fit on two A trains that stopped at Penn Station. They were all running behind, so even though I got to the station at 5:35, I didn't step foot on a train until 6:30. In that time frame, tons of trains went downtown and the C and E passed me a zillion times, but me and about 100 other people paced and bitched while waiting for an A train. And, of course, when one finally did show up, it was so packed that the majority of us couldn't fit inside. This happened one more time around 6:15. Then, as I was about to give up and take the C to 168 and transfer, I caught sight of the A train's lights down the tracks. The car was so empty, I actually got a seat. Which is nice when you have to go 150 streets...
(1)
Ah, yes. The best part of this week... for me, for Mo Yan, and for my company. Years ago, when Arcade Publishing was its own company, they acquired English translations of works by a Chinese writer named Mo Yan. At the time, no one else wanted Mo's work. But the publisher of Arcade, the late Dick Seaver, took a chance. He liked what he read, he had faith in it, and even though it wasn't the best thing ever, he took it on. Throughout the years, Arcade picked up five of Mo's books. In 2009, Mr. Seaver passed away and his wife, Jeannette, sold the company to Skyhorse.
This year, Mo happened to be nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. As Jeannette told us in a company meeting on Thursday, she did not expect Mo to win. All eyes were on the Japanese nominee, not the Chinese. But Mo won. And, in a way, so did my company. Phone calls were made at 5 in the morning, tens of thousands of reprints were ordered, and the design team worked on "Nobel Prize Winner" emblems for the covers of the reprints. The phones rang all day, looking for quotes from our executive editor of Arcade, our publisher, and even Jeannette, who works in the office with us a few days a week. Around 3, our publisher called a meeting, poured champagne for everyone, and we celebrated the rest of the day. It was... awesome.
Of course, I had absolutely nothing to do with any of the books Arcade printed between 2000 and 2008. And I didn't even have anything to do with the reprints we'll be putting out this weekend. But still... we're such a small company. And this is so huge for us. I don't agree with everything we publish, but this definitely shows that taking risks is worth it. And if you believe in something enough, even if it doesn't sell, that doesn't mean it's not good writing. I think we're all going to be a bit more open minded when we're reviewing submissions from now on. You never know when you may be taking on something bigger than yourself.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
This story's going somewhere...
Uhm, I've been busy. I apologize. I don't think anyone really cares except for my mom, though. ;) Either way, it's a good idea to write stuff down and store it somewhere (and why not on the internet?!) because you never know when you'll need it. Maybe I'll write a memoir one day. Or an autobiographical novel. Who knows...
I've been thinking a lot about my own writing lately. And how I just really need to get back into it. I have ideas... tons of ideas. I just haven't honestly given myself the time to sit down and work them out. It's not even about selling them or making money off them or even, really, publishing them. Right now, it's more about actually finishing something I started. To be perfectly honest, I haven't completed a single short story or novel-length work since Matt and I started dating.
Before that, I was fifteen years old and queen of fan fiction (strictly characters from bands I liked listening to at the time) and I was working on my first story with original characters. It seemed promising; I had a really good following in a few online communities and a decent amount of traffic to my LiveJournal, where I posted everything. I was really liking what I was writing.
But then Matt happened. And I let the relationship eat up a lot of my free time. I spent time with (or, God knows, waiting) for him and when he wasn't there, we were on the phone. I used to use writing as a way to pass the time because I didn't have anything else. Friends came and went quite frequently, so many of my closest friends were online. They were dependable and always there when I signed on and they were incredibly supportive of everything I produced, even if the subject matter was... questionable... Come to think of it, I really miss that. I was a weird kid, but we were all pretty weird. We all had issues we were working through, hence the reason we were online every second of every day.
Back then, especially in the summer, I'd be up until 5 AM just writing and chatting. I'd finish a chapter, send it to a friend (Ashlee, most times) to proofread (though, at the time, I don't think we knew that's what we were really doing), and then I'd post it everywhere people were reading. The next day, I'd have more than fifty comments to read through and questions to answer. It was... great. People liked what I wrote (or at least liked the people I wrote about) and it was empowering. I think those late nights are probably among the strongest reasons I chose to go into publishing. I loved reading what other people were writing, I loved sending them critiques, I loved writing my own stuff. I was a little editor; my adolescence definitely foreshadowed my young adulthood/beginning of my professional career.
I don't blame Matt for my lack of creativity the past seven and a half years. Not at all. I know why things have been this way. As I mentioned, I wrote to get myself through a lot of rough, teenage stuff. I was bouncing around between groups of friends and then it was just me and another girl against the world. And then she got a boyfriend and I slowly became background music. I couldn't play sports anymore, I didn't have a ton of close friends, and I needed something to do with my time. So I started writing. And I met all these really great, sincere people through my writing communities. And we had all the same interests. And they always wanted more of what I had to offer. They kept me going. Then Matt and I got close, and I wasn't unhappy anymore. I spent less time online. I didn't have as many issues to work through, to write myself through.
And here I sit. Seven and a half years later (almost to the day my writing died) and I have almost nothing to show for it. Tons of ideas are in a giant binder, which is still packed away from the move. All my old stories are saved on CDs, but I don't ever pull them out because I know they won't be as good today as they were years ago. And they're not anything that I can even revise and use today. They were silly, but they were a part of my childhood, too. And I refuse to just throw them out.
I need to set a few goals. Forget contests and book deals. Forget writing groups and beta reading. I just need to do my own thing on my own time and then go from there. I need to set aside some time and just do it. Stop talking about it and just do it. That's how moving to NYC and working in publishing worked out. Maybe it's a life lesson. Put your money where your mouth is. That kind of thing. Who knows. All I know is that it needs to happen.
The urge has been strong recently, mostly due to what I've been working on, in and out of the office. Freelance has started up with my old company again. This requires me to research and write summaries about mostly upcoming books. Whenever I get one I'd be interested in reading, I wish I had written it. Whenever I get one that sounds absolutely horrible, but is being published by a major house, I think, "If they could do it, I could do it."
At work, I'm editing my first original novel. I acquired it, I formed a great relationship with the author (he seriously calls me every day to check in; I tell everyone I talk to him more than my dad), and now I'm finally combing through the manuscript. Track changes on. (The poor, poor guy.) I've been sending it back to him part by part, and he always calls to say how "excellent" the edits are and how smart I am and how much he agrees with all my suggestions. At one point, I told him I thought there was just way too much dialogue in one chapter and suggested he break it up with a few details about the scene or action between the characters. So he called and asked me if it'd be possible for me to send him an example so he knew what I was looking for. I turned a 300-word conversation into a 700-word scene in less than ten minutes. And it felt wonderful. I was so proud of it. I sent it back and he sent me a one-word email: "Excellent!" And it was. Definitely not my best piece of writing ever, but actually working on it felt great. I came home and told Matt that I felt like that was it. That's all I needed to get back into this.
So this weekend (which happens to be three days long!), my goal is to get something started. First on paper, then on the computer. I don't care if it's not something I totally finish right now. But I know that if I like it enough, if I work the idea out from beginning to end on paper (outline... I outline everything), then I'll want to go back to it. I'll want to finish it. I just need something to finish first.
But before I do any of that, I have to finish a 380-page proofread by Tuesday and write 20 book summaries by Wednesday. This is my life. It's stressful and demanding and full of deadlines, but I love it.
Instructions for you: If you ever text me/call me/see me and ask me what I'm up to and I say "nothing," please ask me about my writing. Guilt me into it. I need the push sometimes.
I've been thinking a lot about my own writing lately. And how I just really need to get back into it. I have ideas... tons of ideas. I just haven't honestly given myself the time to sit down and work them out. It's not even about selling them or making money off them or even, really, publishing them. Right now, it's more about actually finishing something I started. To be perfectly honest, I haven't completed a single short story or novel-length work since Matt and I started dating.
Before that, I was fifteen years old and queen of fan fiction (strictly characters from bands I liked listening to at the time) and I was working on my first story with original characters. It seemed promising; I had a really good following in a few online communities and a decent amount of traffic to my LiveJournal, where I posted everything. I was really liking what I was writing.
But then Matt happened. And I let the relationship eat up a lot of my free time. I spent time with (or, God knows, waiting) for him and when he wasn't there, we were on the phone. I used to use writing as a way to pass the time because I didn't have anything else. Friends came and went quite frequently, so many of my closest friends were online. They were dependable and always there when I signed on and they were incredibly supportive of everything I produced, even if the subject matter was... questionable... Come to think of it, I really miss that. I was a weird kid, but we were all pretty weird. We all had issues we were working through, hence the reason we were online every second of every day.
Back then, especially in the summer, I'd be up until 5 AM just writing and chatting. I'd finish a chapter, send it to a friend (Ashlee, most times) to proofread (though, at the time, I don't think we knew that's what we were really doing), and then I'd post it everywhere people were reading. The next day, I'd have more than fifty comments to read through and questions to answer. It was... great. People liked what I wrote (or at least liked the people I wrote about) and it was empowering. I think those late nights are probably among the strongest reasons I chose to go into publishing. I loved reading what other people were writing, I loved sending them critiques, I loved writing my own stuff. I was a little editor; my adolescence definitely foreshadowed my young adulthood/beginning of my professional career.
I don't blame Matt for my lack of creativity the past seven and a half years. Not at all. I know why things have been this way. As I mentioned, I wrote to get myself through a lot of rough, teenage stuff. I was bouncing around between groups of friends and then it was just me and another girl against the world. And then she got a boyfriend and I slowly became background music. I couldn't play sports anymore, I didn't have a ton of close friends, and I needed something to do with my time. So I started writing. And I met all these really great, sincere people through my writing communities. And we had all the same interests. And they always wanted more of what I had to offer. They kept me going. Then Matt and I got close, and I wasn't unhappy anymore. I spent less time online. I didn't have as many issues to work through, to write myself through.
And here I sit. Seven and a half years later (almost to the day my writing died) and I have almost nothing to show for it. Tons of ideas are in a giant binder, which is still packed away from the move. All my old stories are saved on CDs, but I don't ever pull them out because I know they won't be as good today as they were years ago. And they're not anything that I can even revise and use today. They were silly, but they were a part of my childhood, too. And I refuse to just throw them out.
I need to set a few goals. Forget contests and book deals. Forget writing groups and beta reading. I just need to do my own thing on my own time and then go from there. I need to set aside some time and just do it. Stop talking about it and just do it. That's how moving to NYC and working in publishing worked out. Maybe it's a life lesson. Put your money where your mouth is. That kind of thing. Who knows. All I know is that it needs to happen.
The urge has been strong recently, mostly due to what I've been working on, in and out of the office. Freelance has started up with my old company again. This requires me to research and write summaries about mostly upcoming books. Whenever I get one I'd be interested in reading, I wish I had written it. Whenever I get one that sounds absolutely horrible, but is being published by a major house, I think, "If they could do it, I could do it."
At work, I'm editing my first original novel. I acquired it, I formed a great relationship with the author (he seriously calls me every day to check in; I tell everyone I talk to him more than my dad), and now I'm finally combing through the manuscript. Track changes on. (The poor, poor guy.) I've been sending it back to him part by part, and he always calls to say how "excellent" the edits are and how smart I am and how much he agrees with all my suggestions. At one point, I told him I thought there was just way too much dialogue in one chapter and suggested he break it up with a few details about the scene or action between the characters. So he called and asked me if it'd be possible for me to send him an example so he knew what I was looking for. I turned a 300-word conversation into a 700-word scene in less than ten minutes. And it felt wonderful. I was so proud of it. I sent it back and he sent me a one-word email: "Excellent!" And it was. Definitely not my best piece of writing ever, but actually working on it felt great. I came home and told Matt that I felt like that was it. That's all I needed to get back into this.
So this weekend (which happens to be three days long!), my goal is to get something started. First on paper, then on the computer. I don't care if it's not something I totally finish right now. But I know that if I like it enough, if I work the idea out from beginning to end on paper (outline... I outline everything), then I'll want to go back to it. I'll want to finish it. I just need something to finish first.
But before I do any of that, I have to finish a 380-page proofread by Tuesday and write 20 book summaries by Wednesday. This is my life. It's stressful and demanding and full of deadlines, but I love it.
Instructions for you: If you ever text me/call me/see me and ask me what I'm up to and I say "nothing," please ask me about my writing. Guilt me into it. I need the push sometimes.
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