One thing that always comes up when Techie Boyfriend talks about his work as a code toad/interaction designer is the 80/20 rule: 80% of the features take up only 20% of your total programming time, the other 80% of which is spent fixing bugs you never even expected to have.
This is phenomenon is called the Pareto principle, after an Italian economist who noticed that most of the peas in his garden (80%) were produced by only a handful of super-productive pea pods, while the majority of the pea pods lounged around in the sun growing the other twenty percent of the peas.
**
INTERN has a friend, let’s call him Egbert, who recently wrote a query letter for his novel. Egbert embarked on the query-writing project with joy and enthusiasm and promptly churned out several decent drafts. Writing these pretty-good drafts took him about two hours.
Soon after Egbert had written these queries, however, he began to fret. He really ought to get some feedback on them before proceeding any further. So he signed up for AbsoluteWrite and AgentQuery and SheWrites and the Nathan Bransford forums and a few other places for good measure. He spent several hours critiquing other peoples’ queries so he wouldn’t look like a critique-mooch, then posted his own for review.
Within a few hours, comments started flowing in. Egbert’s query was pretty good, except for the word “locomotion” which many commenters thought contained too many o’s. Two commenters thought Egbert’s query would certainly lead to requests; one mean-sounding commenter said that after reading this train-wreck of a query, she was dubiuos [sic] that Egbert’s writing career was going anywhere at all.
Egbert fretted over these comments and fretted some more. He stayed up late at night writing query after brand-new query in a desperate attempt to please every single person who had commented. He scoured the web for examples of successful query letters, reading just about every article that had ever been written about the art. Every ten minutes or so he checked all the forums he’d signed up for to see if there were any new comments.
This went on for several days, by the end of which Egbert’s eyes were listless and vacant in their orbital cavities and he had STILL not written the Query to Please All Query Experts.
Still he sat at his laptop and fretted, his forum-checking growing more and more compulsive, until he was no longer a writer but a soul-dead zombie, and the queries coming out of him read more like suicide notes than anything else.
**
Sometimes you write out of love and sometimes you write out of fear. First drafts, poems, and text messages to your significant other tend to fall effortlessly into the first category. Revisions sometimes drift towards the second, depending on the harshness of your inner critic, but can usually be pulled back.
Query letters, on the other hand, are notorious for ending up in the Fear category, even if they didn’t start out there. By fear, INTERN does mean mortal terror but also fear in the Buddhist sense—aversion to sucking, aversion to having this big stinking lump of a manuscript sitting on your desk for any longer than it needs to.
Egbert has good reason to be intimidated—after all, a lot of the query advice out there says you all but need a PhD in query-writing to do it right. Yes, it’s important to do your research and read QueryShark and get feedback from other writers. But when you’re lashing yourself onwards like an abused sled-dog, your query’s going to smell like Fear.
**
In Egbert’s case, writing a query was almost a ridiculously perfect illustration of Pareto’s principle. He wrote most of the sentences that ended up in his final query in a handful of inspired minutes. The remaining hours of fretting, forum-checking, and self-flagellation were largely (if not entirely) wasted.
Love and Fear are two very different places to write from. And as plenty of writers will tell you, five minutes in the former is worth a hundred hours in the latter.
**
In INTERN’s experience, the best thing to do when you find yourself in the fear-zone is to put your boots on and muck around outside until you realize that nobody else in the world except you has their brain in knots over whether or not you write the Query to End All Queries this afternoon. Trust the good 20% to keep you in peas for the summer and screw all the rest. You’re not a sled-dog. You’re a writer.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
why queries get rejected—a pie chart in the manner of Kate Hart
If you haven't seen the lovely pie charts over at Kate Hart's blog showing YA deals by genre and 6-figure YA deals by genre, hie thee over there—not only are they interesting, but INTERN has never actually seen a pie chart look so cute and fun you want to take it home and rub it behind the ears.
When INTERN stumbled across this post by Kathleen Ortiz, an agent with Lowenstein Associates, she was inspired to make a pie chart of her own (cue two hours of cursing at Microsoft Excel, enlisting Techie Boyfriend's expertise, and resolving to sign up for remedial math). Ms. Ortiz took a pile of fifty queries and jotted down the reason she either accepted or rejected each one. Here's an excerpt:
It's worth reading the full post to get a neat look at what goes on inside an agent's brain as she sorts through a tower of mail.
At the end of the day, here's how those fifty reasons charted up:
Ta-da!
*INTERN gets out her laser pointer and twiddles it around at random, feeling very serious and professorial for about thirty seconds*
OK, INTERN is going to stick to looking at Kate's pie charts from now on instead of making her own. Twas a fun experiment anyhow!
When INTERN stumbled across this post by Kathleen Ortiz, an agent with Lowenstein Associates, she was inspired to make a pie chart of her own (cue two hours of cursing at Microsoft Excel, enlisting Techie Boyfriend's expertise, and resolving to sign up for remedial math). Ms. Ortiz took a pile of fifty queries and jotted down the reason she either accepted or rejected each one. Here's an excerpt:
1- one sentence about book. I have no idea what form of fiction it is. Pass. (they also submitted the SAME query four times....trust the system. If you see "Thank you for submitting" after you hit "submit," then we got it.)
2- We don't rep romance. pass
3- Three paragraphs about the author. Nothing about the book. Pass
4- Asking if I would be interested in a fiction novel (groan). But it hasn't been written bc wants confirmation that I'm interested in the idea first. Pass
5- 350,000 words. Pass
6- memoir but no platform/credentials. nothing stands out. Pass.
7- We don't rep novellas. Pass
8- I really had no idea what the book was about. Too many plot lines. Pass.
9- Thriller that just wasn't suspenseful. Pass.
It's worth reading the full post to get a neat look at what goes on inside an agent's brain as she sorts through a tower of mail.
At the end of the day, here's how those fifty reasons charted up:
Ta-da!
*INTERN gets out her laser pointer and twiddles it around at random, feeling very serious and professorial for about thirty seconds*
OK, INTERN is going to stick to looking at Kate's pie charts from now on instead of making her own. Twas a fun experiment anyhow!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
sunday special edition: your publishing horoscope for this week
Pisces (Feb. 20-March 20):
New possibilities arise when you have an extremely vivid dream in which the most gorgeous boy you have ever seen burns a stack of library books while gently whispering the words “YA paranormal”.
Aries (March 21-April 20):
A critique partnership could flower into something more this week—isn’t it time you read between the line edits?
Taurus (April 21-May 20):
A literary acquaintance who previously spurned you will come back unexpectedly with an offer of representation. Proceed with caution—is she really the best match for your work?
Gemini (May 21-June 20):
Quick reflexes could prove extremely valuable when a freak power outage threatens to wipe your 110,000-word manuscript out of existence. The oracle has said this before and she’ll say it again: back up your work.
Cancer (June 21-July 22):
A work-in-progress will go in a bold new direction when a stranger comes to town, throwing your entire worldview into question and sowing romantic chaos among your close-knit and culturally-diverse circle of friends.
Leo (July 22-Aug. 22):
Sympathetic writer-friends can make a stressful period easier to bear. But beware the temptation to turn critique sessions into opportunities to get completely $%# hammered, lest your WIP become gin-stained.
Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22):
Patience will be essential this week as you await response to an important query. Resist the temptation to follow up by e-mail or telephone—good things come to those who gnaw their fingernails to the bone while hanging in agonizing limbo.
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 22):
Gossip about an acquaintance who has recently signed with a sought-after agent will reach you today. Don’t let yourself be overcome by jealousy—your turn is coming too. But in the meantime, perhaps your acquaintance would be kind enough to honor you with a glowing referral?
Scorpio (Oct. 23-Nov. 21):
Things may not go as planned this week when a dashing stranger taps you on the shoulder, asks if you happen to be working on a novel, and, upon finding out that you are, humbly inquires whether you would consider signing a four-book deal with Simon & Schuster, right here, right now. No need to query.
Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 21):
Romantic turmoil ensues when your significant other discovers your ongoing flirtation with your critique partner, whose inline comments have become increasingly steamy over the past few weeks. It might be time for you to acknowledge that AbsoluteWrite is not a dating site.
Capricorn (Dec. 22-January 20): ←INTERN!
The aforementioned freak power outage takes a bizarre twist when Techie Boyfriend and the Ranch Hands go into the city for the weekend and you realize you are all alone with Creepy Caretaker and nothing but bobcats to hear you scream.
Aquarius (Jan. 21-Feb. 19):
Disorientation results when you awaken in the middle of a cornfield, having resolved to draw your writerly inspiration from alien abduction experiences rather than dreams. Now what were those words that bald-headed extraterrestrial whispered in your ear again? “YA space opera?”
**
happy Sunday from INTERN.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
department of dubious dreamery
Recently, INTERN has been noticing a curious trend in YA author interviews: authors who attribute their inspiration for a character or an entire novel to a dream.
By now, everyone is (over-)familiar with the Stephenie Meyer Legend: had dream about sparkly vampire and unsparkly girl discussing the intricacies of sparkly/non-sparkly love, woke up, penned four-book series, laughed hysterically all the way to the blood bank. (Cue wannabe bestselling vampire authors everywhere popping Nyquil and repairing to their beds.)
When she first heard of this Legend, INTERN thought it was an unusual story. But since then, INTERN has stumbled upon tons of YA authors who claim to have discovered their novels in a dream.
Humph. *glares reproachfully at her decidedly non plot outline-producing or query letter-generating bed*.
While INTERN doesn't doubt that these YA ladies are telling the truth about their nocturnal inspiration, she can't help but smell some kind of culture-bound fish. INTERN wouldn't be surprised if, in five or ten years from now, dreams had passed out of vogue and authors were instead pointing to mescaline trips or divination as the source of their ideas for novels. Creativity is a mysterious thing, and the collective story we tell ourselves about it is as prone to shifting over time as the collective story we tell ourselves about diseases or gravity or gender or fruit flies.
So why dreams? Why now? Why not "my cat beamed the story to me telepathically" or "I've been working on this @$!#@ manuscript for so long I don't even remember how I originally thought of it"?
This dream thing has something innately glamorous and weirdly flattering about it, while managing to be humble at the same time. It says "I am subject to bursts of divine inspiration!" but also "I really can't take credit for this—twas the dream!" That's a pretty appealing story. Best of all, it's an acceptable explanation within our society—one that doesn't make you sound either calculating or insane.
Before she returns to boar hunting, INTERN wants to know: What do you make of this whole YA Novels Based on Dreams phenomenon? Do you get your inspiration from your REM cycle? Is this dream thing a convenient explanation or the gospel truth?
By now, everyone is (over-)familiar with the Stephenie Meyer Legend: had dream about sparkly vampire and unsparkly girl discussing the intricacies of sparkly/non-sparkly love, woke up, penned four-book series, laughed hysterically all the way to the blood bank. (Cue wannabe bestselling vampire authors everywhere popping Nyquil and repairing to their beds.)
When she first heard of this Legend, INTERN thought it was an unusual story. But since then, INTERN has stumbled upon tons of YA authors who claim to have discovered their novels in a dream.
Humph. *glares reproachfully at her decidedly non plot outline-producing or query letter-generating bed*.
While INTERN doesn't doubt that these YA ladies are telling the truth about their nocturnal inspiration, she can't help but smell some kind of culture-bound fish. INTERN wouldn't be surprised if, in five or ten years from now, dreams had passed out of vogue and authors were instead pointing to mescaline trips or divination as the source of their ideas for novels. Creativity is a mysterious thing, and the collective story we tell ourselves about it is as prone to shifting over time as the collective story we tell ourselves about diseases or gravity or gender or fruit flies.
So why dreams? Why now? Why not "my cat beamed the story to me telepathically" or "I've been working on this @$!#@ manuscript for so long I don't even remember how I originally thought of it"?
This dream thing has something innately glamorous and weirdly flattering about it, while managing to be humble at the same time. It says "I am subject to bursts of divine inspiration!" but also "I really can't take credit for this—twas the dream!" That's a pretty appealing story. Best of all, it's an acceptable explanation within our society—one that doesn't make you sound either calculating or insane.
Before she returns to boar hunting, INTERN wants to know: What do you make of this whole YA Novels Based on Dreams phenomenon? Do you get your inspiration from your REM cycle? Is this dream thing a convenient explanation or the gospel truth?
Monday, March 14, 2011
Writer, Confess! Have you ever used a real person as a character?
A little while ago, INTERN read about the lawsuit simmering over Kathryn Stockett’s novel “The Help,” in which a sixty-year old woman named Ablene Cooper is accusing Stockett of using her as a character in her book. Even though the character allegedly created in Ms. Cooper's likeness is depicted in a very flattering way, the experience of seeing herself (or what looks like herself) in a novel has her hot and bothered to the tune of $75,000.
This made INTERN scratch her head. Is it really illegal to use a real person as a character? What if you show them as being charming and intelligent and irresistibly attractive? What if you do the old gender switcheroo, or dress them up as a Deaf-Mute Bong Salesman or a Costa Rican coffee farmer? Who decides what degree of character-snatching is OK and what degree is punishable with a $75,000 fine?
In her quest for answers, INTERN stumbled across this blog about Writing and the Law, wherein she found the following quote by first amendment expert R. Smolla:
Humph. Deaf-Mute Bong Salesman it is.
**
Beyond the legal issues surrounding character-snatching, INTERN has long been fascinated by the emotions that suspected character-snatching evokes in the character-snatchee. One of INTERN’s earliest writer-memories is her big sister warning her, on pain of extremely prolonged and excrutiating Indian Burns, that she must NEVER, EVER, EVER write about her in a fiction, non-fiction, diaristic, poetic or journalistic context (INTERN realizes that by writing this sentence she is coming dangerously close to breaking this ban—but then again, INTERN’s big sister didn’t specificallty forbid blogging.)
On the other end of the spectrum, there's the endless parade of tiresome strangers in bars and subways who upon finding out you are a Writer, flatter themselves to think that surely you will want to use their story in a book.
INTERN can’t help but wonder if people fall into two camps: there are those who have a primitive fear of being Novelized the way the proverbial Lost Tribe fears the soul-snatching camera, and those who would consider Novelization—even in a negative light—the ultimate victory.
There are all sorts of arguments both for and against using real people in novels and stories. For example: "Truman Capote did it!" versus "Truman Capote's friends never talked to him again!" Using real people as characters can be disastrous in all sorts of ways, but if writers weren't allowed to do it at all, we'd lose out on a lot of good literature.
So, writerlings, INTERN is curious to know: Have you ever based a fictional character on a real person? Did that person go on to kill, maim, sue, or date you? What's your policy on character-snatching? Has anyone ever falsely suspected you of snatching them? Have you ever suspected another writer of snatching you?
This made INTERN scratch her head. Is it really illegal to use a real person as a character? What if you show them as being charming and intelligent and irresistibly attractive? What if you do the old gender switcheroo, or dress them up as a Deaf-Mute Bong Salesman or a Costa Rican coffee farmer? Who decides what degree of character-snatching is OK and what degree is punishable with a $75,000 fine?
In her quest for answers, INTERN stumbled across this blog about Writing and the Law, wherein she found the following quote by first amendment expert R. Smolla:
When an author wants to draw from a real person as the basis for a fictional character, there are two relatively "safe" courses of action from a legal perspective: First, the author may make little or no attempt to disguise the character, but refrain from any defamatory and false embellishments on the character's conduct or personality; second, the author may engage in creative embellishments that reflect negatively on the character's reputation, but make substantial efforts to disguise the character . . . to avoid identification. When an author takes a middle ground, however, neither adhering perfectly to the person's attributes and behavior nor engaging in elaborate disguise, there is a threat of defamation liability.
Humph. Deaf-Mute Bong Salesman it is.
**
Beyond the legal issues surrounding character-snatching, INTERN has long been fascinated by the emotions that suspected character-snatching evokes in the character-snatchee. One of INTERN’s earliest writer-memories is her big sister warning her, on pain of extremely prolonged and excrutiating Indian Burns, that she must NEVER, EVER, EVER write about her in a fiction, non-fiction, diaristic, poetic or journalistic context (INTERN realizes that by writing this sentence she is coming dangerously close to breaking this ban—but then again, INTERN’s big sister didn’t specificallty forbid blogging.)
On the other end of the spectrum, there's the endless parade of tiresome strangers in bars and subways who upon finding out you are a Writer, flatter themselves to think that surely you will want to use their story in a book.
INTERN can’t help but wonder if people fall into two camps: there are those who have a primitive fear of being Novelized the way the proverbial Lost Tribe fears the soul-snatching camera, and those who would consider Novelization—even in a negative light—the ultimate victory.
There are all sorts of arguments both for and against using real people in novels and stories. For example: "Truman Capote did it!" versus "Truman Capote's friends never talked to him again!" Using real people as characters can be disastrous in all sorts of ways, but if writers weren't allowed to do it at all, we'd lose out on a lot of good literature.
So, writerlings, INTERN is curious to know: Have you ever based a fictional character on a real person? Did that person go on to kill, maim, sue, or date you? What's your policy on character-snatching? Has anyone ever falsely suspected you of snatching them? Have you ever suspected another writer of snatching you?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Der Man Aus Tennessee: Ein Top-Western
Besides INTERN and Techie Boyfriend, there are three other semi-permanent residents at the ranch: two sweet and loveable Ranch Hands of the djembe-stoner variety, who like nothing more than to partake of some herbal medicine and spend all day pruning grape vines, and the inevitable Creepy Caretaker, a lecherous, pot-bellied hermit who lives in a house on the hill and whose main responsibility at the ranch is puttering around in an ATV searching for Hot and Available Young Ladies to woo, of which this vast and unforgiving landscape is in disappointingly scant supply.
Every month or two, Hippie Roommate and her high-powered boyfriend drive up from San Francisco for an all-too-short weekend visit in which they have just enough time to unpack their organic groceries, hold an elaborate tea ceremony with cave-ripened thousand-year-old Pu Erh straight off the plane from Xishuangbanna, fret over possibile mutinies among the Ranch Hands, and enjoy a brief dip in the hot tub before motoring off again in a leather-seated pickup approximately ten times more powerful than any other vehicle at the ranch. For a moment, everyone stands around observing their departure wistfully, because they are well-liked and interesting to talk to. Then, the Ranch Hands, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend return to what they do best, namely, frolicking, and Creepy Caretaker climbs back on his ATV to continue his grim search for booty.
One of the challenges of living at a remote and clandestine mountain hideaway is that INTERN is constantly running out books.
The first time INTERN ran out of books, she tried borrowing books from the Ranch Hands (whose interests run, unfortunately for INTERN, more to Eckhart Tolle than Tolstoi) and from Hippie Roommate's H.P.B (whose interests run to expensive 2,000-page volumes about the history of tea). Last week, she finally hit rock bottom. It was time to venture out from the ranch and find a bookstore.
As the crow flies, the ranch is a mere 6.14 miles from the closest bookstore (INTERN knows this for a fact; she just checked using this neat Distance Measurement Tool on Google Maps). In practice, however, getting to this bookstore involves a harrowing full-day journey.
First, Techie Boyfriend will declare that the Spaceship needs a full head-gasket change before it will be safe to drive. After that little spot of maintenance is taken care of, INTERN will chase out the family of badgers that has taken up residence in the back of the truck, and Techie Boyfriend will fire up the engine.
Once the Spaceship is (more or less) running, they will pull onto the first of several dozen unmarked dirt roads, their caravan clanking and shuddering in an ominous way each time they hit a pothole. Every quarter mile or so, INTERN will hop out to unlock one of a seemingly infinite series of security gates, each with its own combination. Every half mile or so, Techie Boyfriend will hop out to engage in tense negotiations with the local dr—er, understandably cautious, if rather heavily armed neighbors*, who control some of the dirt roads in question, while INTERN does her best not to look like a Fed.
Having made it this far on their pleasant country ramble, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend emerge onto an actual paved road, from where it is only a gorgeous thirty-minute drive (pulling over every few seconds to let a gleaming white Lexus or two whiz by in an awful hurry) to the charming little town in which the bookstore is located.
To date, they have only made this journey once. Knowing it would probably be a long time before they returned again, INTERN found herself in a state of great agitation. What if she ran out of books again in a week? It seemed like no amount of Faulkner or Gertrude Stein or short story anthologies translated from Japanese would ever be enough to last her more than a few days.
Then INTERN discovered the foreign-language section. Foreign languages. Of course! It was the perfect solution. As savvy grade-three teachers everywhere know, NOTHING slows down an over-eager reader more than a book in a language they DON'T UNDERSTAND.
For the past two weeks, therefore, INTERN has been chewing on this little tome:
That's right. Ein Top-Western. So far, INTERN has figured out that the main character's name is Wingo Rowan and that he is fighting the Comanchen und Kiowas for Kontrolle of New Mexico. Either that, or having a very long barfight concerning a dropped wienerschnitzel.
INTERN will keep you updated on her progress in untangling the plot. In the meantime, she is already in the querying stage of ein Top-Western of her own (Der INTERN Aus Kalifornia). Maybe that twenty-book über-deal isn't so far off.
*At this point, INTERN would like to make it absolutely clear that the ranch at which INTERN is staying is purely a Pleasure Ranch, not a Business Ranch, if you know what INTERN means. But folks are pretty territorial in these parts, regardless of which category they fall into, hence the Secretiveness of her location.
Every month or two, Hippie Roommate and her high-powered boyfriend drive up from San Francisco for an all-too-short weekend visit in which they have just enough time to unpack their organic groceries, hold an elaborate tea ceremony with cave-ripened thousand-year-old Pu Erh straight off the plane from Xishuangbanna, fret over possibile mutinies among the Ranch Hands, and enjoy a brief dip in the hot tub before motoring off again in a leather-seated pickup approximately ten times more powerful than any other vehicle at the ranch. For a moment, everyone stands around observing their departure wistfully, because they are well-liked and interesting to talk to. Then, the Ranch Hands, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend return to what they do best, namely, frolicking, and Creepy Caretaker climbs back on his ATV to continue his grim search for booty.
One of the challenges of living at a remote and clandestine mountain hideaway is that INTERN is constantly running out books.
The first time INTERN ran out of books, she tried borrowing books from the Ranch Hands (whose interests run, unfortunately for INTERN, more to Eckhart Tolle than Tolstoi) and from Hippie Roommate's H.P.B (whose interests run to expensive 2,000-page volumes about the history of tea). Last week, she finally hit rock bottom. It was time to venture out from the ranch and find a bookstore.
As the crow flies, the ranch is a mere 6.14 miles from the closest bookstore (INTERN knows this for a fact; she just checked using this neat Distance Measurement Tool on Google Maps). In practice, however, getting to this bookstore involves a harrowing full-day journey.
First, Techie Boyfriend will declare that the Spaceship needs a full head-gasket change before it will be safe to drive. After that little spot of maintenance is taken care of, INTERN will chase out the family of badgers that has taken up residence in the back of the truck, and Techie Boyfriend will fire up the engine.
Once the Spaceship is (more or less) running, they will pull onto the first of several dozen unmarked dirt roads, their caravan clanking and shuddering in an ominous way each time they hit a pothole. Every quarter mile or so, INTERN will hop out to unlock one of a seemingly infinite series of security gates, each with its own combination. Every half mile or so, Techie Boyfriend will hop out to engage in tense negotiations with the local dr—er, understandably cautious, if rather heavily armed neighbors*, who control some of the dirt roads in question, while INTERN does her best not to look like a Fed.
Having made it this far on their pleasant country ramble, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend emerge onto an actual paved road, from where it is only a gorgeous thirty-minute drive (pulling over every few seconds to let a gleaming white Lexus or two whiz by in an awful hurry) to the charming little town in which the bookstore is located.
To date, they have only made this journey once. Knowing it would probably be a long time before they returned again, INTERN found herself in a state of great agitation. What if she ran out of books again in a week? It seemed like no amount of Faulkner or Gertrude Stein or short story anthologies translated from Japanese would ever be enough to last her more than a few days.
Then INTERN discovered the foreign-language section. Foreign languages. Of course! It was the perfect solution. As savvy grade-three teachers everywhere know, NOTHING slows down an over-eager reader more than a book in a language they DON'T UNDERSTAND.
For the past two weeks, therefore, INTERN has been chewing on this little tome:
That's right. Ein Top-Western. So far, INTERN has figured out that the main character's name is Wingo Rowan and that he is fighting the Comanchen und Kiowas for Kontrolle of New Mexico. Either that, or having a very long barfight concerning a dropped wienerschnitzel.
INTERN will keep you updated on her progress in untangling the plot. In the meantime, she is already in the querying stage of ein Top-Western of her own (Der INTERN Aus Kalifornia). Maybe that twenty-book über-deal isn't so far off.
*At this point, INTERN would like to make it absolutely clear that the ranch at which INTERN is staying is purely a Pleasure Ranch, not a Business Ranch, if you know what INTERN means. But folks are pretty territorial in these parts, regardless of which category they fall into, hence the Secretiveness of her location.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
INTERN returns!
When last INTERN poked her head into the blogosphere, she was grease-stained and coolant-soaked and half-insane from breathing in too many Spaceship Fumes whilst repairing the van she had been living in with Techie Boyfriend for the past six months. INTERN is happy to report that her days of living in a motor vehicle are now over, and that she is finally ready to return to a slightly less auto-shoppy existence—and to this blog.
INTERN and Techie Boyfriend are currently holed up at a secret hideaway in the hills of Mendocino County, California, where they spend most of their time studying cougar scat and making elaborate plans to catch wild boars using ingenious and entirely humane traps built out of manzanita twigs and duck spit (not to fret—INTERN is still herbivorous. But only until she catches her first boar.) Those of you who have known INTERN for some time will be intrigued to know that INTERN and Techie Boyfriend are living here under the patronage of Hippie Roommate’s high-powered boyfriend (yes, that Hippie Roommate! what a dear!) who owns pretty much the entire state of California. Vampire Roommate has slipped off INTERN’s radar—although last she heard, he was still working at the Boys’ and Girls’ Club (!!!) and sharpening his fangs in the bathroom mirror.
As you have no doubt already deduced, INTERN is no longer an intern any sort (unless you count cougar scatology) nor indeed affiliated with the publishing industry in any official capacity except as a troublesome author whose tendency to have no fixed address causes her publisher no end of despair. She has decided to come back to this blog (and this particular pseudonym, rather than FORMER INTERN or something awful like that) because over the past few months she’s started to feel a yearning to reconnect. She has done her months of wandering, put in her lonely hours, sat in her proverbial bat-infested cave, waiting for a vision—and now it’s time to come home. Oh yes, and she missed you.
Part of INTERN wishes she could report that during her six-month absence from this blog, she had netted some twenty-book über-deal or authored a mystical text on par with The Tibetan Book of the Dead or launched a dozen secret blogs she never told you about or spawned a batch hyper-literate octuplets who are at this very moment being interviewed by the New Yorker. But to tell you the truth, that’s not what INTERN did. What INTERN mostly did was sit in her bat-cave fretting over the idea of Quality and berating herself to get Serious about her Art*. Incidentally, she also learned how to juggle three balls. Neat-o!
Going forward, INTERN feels the need to make certain Declarations about this blog. You can probably guess what they are, but here goes anyway:
-INTERN reserves the right to de-anonymize at some point, at her sole discretion. This means you might check this blog someday only to discover that it is in fact written by a thick-ankled old snake wrangler from Bryan, TX or an eleven-year old Siberian orphan ensnared in childhood by Intern Slavers from New York (what? you don’t know about the Intern Slavers? what a scoop.) She probably won’t do it anytime soon (or perhaps ever). But maybe!
-INTERN also reserves the right to outsource this blog to India should her intensive schedule of boar-hunting and manuscript revision prove too cumbersome.
-INTERN furthermore reserves the right to shift the focus of this blog from writing to Jungian theory and drop some serious apocatastasis on your animas. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.
Oh, screw declarations. You all know why INTERN is here. She doesn’t need to declare nothin’.
It’s good to be back.
With infinite adoration and gratitude,
INTERN
*being cougar scatology.
INTERN and Techie Boyfriend are currently holed up at a secret hideaway in the hills of Mendocino County, California, where they spend most of their time studying cougar scat and making elaborate plans to catch wild boars using ingenious and entirely humane traps built out of manzanita twigs and duck spit (not to fret—INTERN is still herbivorous. But only until she catches her first boar.) Those of you who have known INTERN for some time will be intrigued to know that INTERN and Techie Boyfriend are living here under the patronage of Hippie Roommate’s high-powered boyfriend (yes, that Hippie Roommate! what a dear!) who owns pretty much the entire state of California. Vampire Roommate has slipped off INTERN’s radar—although last she heard, he was still working at the Boys’ and Girls’ Club (!!!) and sharpening his fangs in the bathroom mirror.
As you have no doubt already deduced, INTERN is no longer an intern any sort (unless you count cougar scatology) nor indeed affiliated with the publishing industry in any official capacity except as a troublesome author whose tendency to have no fixed address causes her publisher no end of despair. She has decided to come back to this blog (and this particular pseudonym, rather than FORMER INTERN or something awful like that) because over the past few months she’s started to feel a yearning to reconnect. She has done her months of wandering, put in her lonely hours, sat in her proverbial bat-infested cave, waiting for a vision—and now it’s time to come home. Oh yes, and she missed you.
Part of INTERN wishes she could report that during her six-month absence from this blog, she had netted some twenty-book über-deal or authored a mystical text on par with The Tibetan Book of the Dead or launched a dozen secret blogs she never told you about or spawned a batch hyper-literate octuplets who are at this very moment being interviewed by the New Yorker. But to tell you the truth, that’s not what INTERN did. What INTERN mostly did was sit in her bat-cave fretting over the idea of Quality and berating herself to get Serious about her Art*. Incidentally, she also learned how to juggle three balls. Neat-o!
Going forward, INTERN feels the need to make certain Declarations about this blog. You can probably guess what they are, but here goes anyway:
-INTERN reserves the right to de-anonymize at some point, at her sole discretion. This means you might check this blog someday only to discover that it is in fact written by a thick-ankled old snake wrangler from Bryan, TX or an eleven-year old Siberian orphan ensnared in childhood by Intern Slavers from New York (what? you don’t know about the Intern Slavers? what a scoop.) She probably won’t do it anytime soon (or perhaps ever). But maybe!
-INTERN also reserves the right to outsource this blog to India should her intensive schedule of boar-hunting and manuscript revision prove too cumbersome.
-INTERN furthermore reserves the right to shift the focus of this blog from writing to Jungian theory and drop some serious apocatastasis on your animas. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.
Oh, screw declarations. You all know why INTERN is here. She doesn’t need to declare nothin’.
It’s good to be back.
With infinite adoration and gratitude,
INTERN
*being cougar scatology.
Monday, December 27, 2010
!!!surprise x-mas post!!! Everything INTERN Needs to Know About Manuscript Repair She Learned From Fixing Her Spaceship
Greetings, erstwhile readers! Over the course of the past six months, INTERN has found her thoughts straying to you time and again, wondering how you're doing and how your dear manuscripts are getting along. Now, in this warm and fuzzy season of well-wishery, INTERN is breaking her vow of bloggerly silence to indulge herself in a brief hello.
As some of you may know, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend have been living in a spaceship they bought for $750. For most of the past month, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend have been completely swallowed up in engine repair as they desperately strove to make it to Techie Boyfriend's family homestead in California in time for Christmas. Over the course of those alternatingly tense and joyful hours spent under the hood of the spaceship, or lying underneath the spaceship while Techie Boyfriend dropped various tools on INTERN's face, INTERN realized that engine repair is basically the same as manuscript repair, except greasier and with a greater chance of getting blinded by terrifying chemicals.
INTERN would therefore like to share with you some quick insights, now that she has abandoned writing for auto shop. Here they are:
Everything INTERN Needs to Know About Manuscript Repair She Learned From Fixing Her Spaceship
1. It helps to have a beta driver.
Because there is a good chance that you, on your own, are completely delusional:
Techie Boyfriend: Whoa. Why is the spaceship shuddering like that when you start it?
INTERN: (gripping the wheel and grinning broadly) Hmm? It’s not shuddering.
Techie Boyfriend: What’s that black smoke coming out of the engine?
INTERN: (gazing vacantly straight ahead) There’s no black smoke.
Spaceship: (spitting balls of fire) Frak-bleargh-akakakakakakkkk
Techie Boyfriend: Oh my god. Pull over. We’re about to blow up.
INTERN: (turning to Techie Boyfriend and snarling viciously) WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO GODDAMN NITPICKY ABOUT EVERYTHING???
2. There are parts of your engine held together with zip ties that really ought not to be held together with zip ties.
This might explain why that gas station attendant who walked by when you were checking your oil the other day begged you with tears in his eyes not to attempt to drive your van any further.
3. The functionality of your engine is not “subjective”. It is not “different for everybody”. Either your engine runs or it doesn’t. Either it degenerates into a smoking wreck in an east Texas rest area or it doesn’t. Either it is purring along nicely at 60 mph or it is sitting on the side of the highway with the four-way flashers blinking.
If you are still not sure which camp your engine falls into, just ask any objective bystander for a speedy clarification.
4. You cannot step into the same engine twice.
This is an ancient saying attributed to Heraclitus. What Heraclitus means is that, every time you pull the head cover off to adjust the clearances on the valves just one last time before driving your van off into the sunset, you will discover that the engine you thought you’d been working on for the past infinity days has been replaced by a completely different engine with a completely new set of completely impossible-to-solve new problems.
5. If you take apart your engine, you will find that some idiot stripped a bolt in the intake manifold, figured it “wouldn’t matter that much”, and created a horrible coolant leak that will now take you twenty hours to repair.
That idiot was probably you.
6. No engine part is an island.
That means you can’t replace the bejongler without realizing that the wokkapiggery and the bauschnauserum also need replacing. You will also realize with horror that the Imminent Death Cable is frayed to a half-millimeter in thickness, the Brake Pads of the Apocalypse are fossilized, and some young punk scratched your new gradient-fractal paint job with a key. The scary problem you initially set out to fix is actually trivial in comparison to the howling ruination that is the rest of your engine. Have fun with that, Chip.
7. Other people will try to distract you from completing your engine repair job.
Like the upstanding citizens of the Bryan, TX neighborhood association who give you 24 hours to clear your eyesore of a vehicle out of your friend’s driveway when the engine is already completely disassembled in the garage. And, um, the Arizona police.
But whatever happens (or whoever comes glaring), you must prevail over these minor distractions and get the job done, because at the end of your day you believe in your engine even if nobody else does, and you are determined to make it run. And screw Bryan, TX anyway.
8. There’s no shame in calling in some expert assistance if you get stuck.
Like your uncle’s cousin’s friend’s neighbor’s socially awkward but mechanically-minded teenaged son, who will help you diagnose that strange ticking sound in exchange for frightening amounts of Mountain Dew.
9. Your engine does not work through a mysterious and incomprehensible combination of wizardry and leprechauns.
In fact, your engine works through a rational and really quite accessible process of mundlefrommery, sparklemangery, and dequarkification. Like, RTFM.
10. If you keep at it long enough and don’t give up, your engine will slowly start to reveal its secrets.
You will start to realize that bolts that were impossible to unbolt two days ago now come off and on with ease. Wires that seemed to go nowhere yesterday now clip neatly in their sockets. Oil that was dripping all over your face yesterday is now staying obediently inside the proper receptacle. The mechanic’s flight suit that looked ridiculous on you last week is now looking authentically filthy, giving you reassuring amounts of cred when you’re waiting in line at Napa Auto Parts. You will start to realize that maybe this engine repair thing is possible after all.
11. No engine repair experience is ever wasted.
Because even if, God forbid, you end up hauling your spaceship to the junkyard, you will have learned so much, gotten your clothes so greasy, and tested your relationship with your beta driver to such an extreme level that you will approach your next engine repair job with that much more wisdom, insight, patience, and, um, possibly dread. You will be a stronger person. A more knowledgeable person. Perhaps a person who now requires a few years of mental and/or physical and/or marital therapy to work through all the issues that came up over the course of the Engine Repair Experience. But all in all, a person who is now better quipped than ever before to work with whatever engines the future holds.
**
That is all. Just in case anyone is fretting, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend made it to California in time for Christmas despite approximately twelve hundred engine-related disasters, and an exhausted INTERN spent the holiday lying on the couch like a sultan while Techie Boyfriend's many relatives fed her cookies and piled lots and lots of novels on the floor for her to read. What happiness!
INTERN misses you all and wishes you all ten thousand delights. May you all gallop into the new year with glee in your eyes and inspiration at your fingertips. Thank you for allowing INTERN the indulgence of this yuletide post. Godspeed!
As some of you may know, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend have been living in a spaceship they bought for $750. For most of the past month, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend have been completely swallowed up in engine repair as they desperately strove to make it to Techie Boyfriend's family homestead in California in time for Christmas. Over the course of those alternatingly tense and joyful hours spent under the hood of the spaceship, or lying underneath the spaceship while Techie Boyfriend dropped various tools on INTERN's face, INTERN realized that engine repair is basically the same as manuscript repair, except greasier and with a greater chance of getting blinded by terrifying chemicals.
INTERN would therefore like to share with you some quick insights, now that she has abandoned writing for auto shop. Here they are:
Everything INTERN Needs to Know About Manuscript Repair She Learned From Fixing Her Spaceship
1. It helps to have a beta driver.
Because there is a good chance that you, on your own, are completely delusional:
Techie Boyfriend: Whoa. Why is the spaceship shuddering like that when you start it?
INTERN: (gripping the wheel and grinning broadly) Hmm? It’s not shuddering.
Techie Boyfriend: What’s that black smoke coming out of the engine?
INTERN: (gazing vacantly straight ahead) There’s no black smoke.
Spaceship: (spitting balls of fire) Frak-bleargh-akakakakakakkkk
Techie Boyfriend: Oh my god. Pull over. We’re about to blow up.
INTERN: (turning to Techie Boyfriend and snarling viciously) WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO GODDAMN NITPICKY ABOUT EVERYTHING???
2. There are parts of your engine held together with zip ties that really ought not to be held together with zip ties.
This might explain why that gas station attendant who walked by when you were checking your oil the other day begged you with tears in his eyes not to attempt to drive your van any further.
3. The functionality of your engine is not “subjective”. It is not “different for everybody”. Either your engine runs or it doesn’t. Either it degenerates into a smoking wreck in an east Texas rest area or it doesn’t. Either it is purring along nicely at 60 mph or it is sitting on the side of the highway with the four-way flashers blinking.
If you are still not sure which camp your engine falls into, just ask any objective bystander for a speedy clarification.
4. You cannot step into the same engine twice.
This is an ancient saying attributed to Heraclitus. What Heraclitus means is that, every time you pull the head cover off to adjust the clearances on the valves just one last time before driving your van off into the sunset, you will discover that the engine you thought you’d been working on for the past infinity days has been replaced by a completely different engine with a completely new set of completely impossible-to-solve new problems.
5. If you take apart your engine, you will find that some idiot stripped a bolt in the intake manifold, figured it “wouldn’t matter that much”, and created a horrible coolant leak that will now take you twenty hours to repair.
That idiot was probably you.
6. No engine part is an island.
That means you can’t replace the bejongler without realizing that the wokkapiggery and the bauschnauserum also need replacing. You will also realize with horror that the Imminent Death Cable is frayed to a half-millimeter in thickness, the Brake Pads of the Apocalypse are fossilized, and some young punk scratched your new gradient-fractal paint job with a key. The scary problem you initially set out to fix is actually trivial in comparison to the howling ruination that is the rest of your engine. Have fun with that, Chip.
7. Other people will try to distract you from completing your engine repair job.
Like the upstanding citizens of the Bryan, TX neighborhood association who give you 24 hours to clear your eyesore of a vehicle out of your friend’s driveway when the engine is already completely disassembled in the garage. And, um, the Arizona police.
But whatever happens (or whoever comes glaring), you must prevail over these minor distractions and get the job done, because at the end of your day you believe in your engine even if nobody else does, and you are determined to make it run. And screw Bryan, TX anyway.
8. There’s no shame in calling in some expert assistance if you get stuck.
Like your uncle’s cousin’s friend’s neighbor’s socially awkward but mechanically-minded teenaged son, who will help you diagnose that strange ticking sound in exchange for frightening amounts of Mountain Dew.
9. Your engine does not work through a mysterious and incomprehensible combination of wizardry and leprechauns.
In fact, your engine works through a rational and really quite accessible process of mundlefrommery, sparklemangery, and dequarkification. Like, RTFM.
10. If you keep at it long enough and don’t give up, your engine will slowly start to reveal its secrets.
You will start to realize that bolts that were impossible to unbolt two days ago now come off and on with ease. Wires that seemed to go nowhere yesterday now clip neatly in their sockets. Oil that was dripping all over your face yesterday is now staying obediently inside the proper receptacle. The mechanic’s flight suit that looked ridiculous on you last week is now looking authentically filthy, giving you reassuring amounts of cred when you’re waiting in line at Napa Auto Parts. You will start to realize that maybe this engine repair thing is possible after all.
11. No engine repair experience is ever wasted.
Because even if, God forbid, you end up hauling your spaceship to the junkyard, you will have learned so much, gotten your clothes so greasy, and tested your relationship with your beta driver to such an extreme level that you will approach your next engine repair job with that much more wisdom, insight, patience, and, um, possibly dread. You will be a stronger person. A more knowledgeable person. Perhaps a person who now requires a few years of mental and/or physical and/or marital therapy to work through all the issues that came up over the course of the Engine Repair Experience. But all in all, a person who is now better quipped than ever before to work with whatever engines the future holds.
**
That is all. Just in case anyone is fretting, INTERN and Techie Boyfriend made it to California in time for Christmas despite approximately twelve hundred engine-related disasters, and an exhausted INTERN spent the holiday lying on the couch like a sultan while Techie Boyfriend's many relatives fed her cookies and piled lots and lots of novels on the floor for her to read. What happiness!
INTERN misses you all and wishes you all ten thousand delights. May you all gallop into the new year with glee in your eyes and inspiration at your fingertips. Thank you for allowing INTERN the indulgence of this yuletide post. Godspeed!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
in which INTERN gets real/also a love letter
So.
It's been fifteen months since a young and wide-eyed INTERN started this blog. Everything was so exciting! There were publishing secrets to uncover and manuscript snafus to ponder and Nemesis Interns to thwart.
Then, INTERN spent some time nailing down some thoughts on revision and book-buying habits.
After a few months of that, INTERN missed publishing so much she did a second internship and learned all about how Distinguished and oh-so-Selective publishers (and their authors) can be sort of crazy.
Shortly after, INTERN fled the venerable confines of that internship in order to stumble awkwardly through her own book's release and promotion while trying and, INTERN admits, probably failing to not let her anonymity become annoying.
And now, dear readers, dearest dears, most beautiful and friendly and clever ones, INTERN has said just about everything she feels like saying about publishing and writing. INTERN has emptied the junk drawer of her brain on this matter and all that's left are child-sized band-aids and dried-up rubber bands. INTERN does not want to dilute this blog with posts that aren't 100% stoked and earnest and alive, because y'all deserve better and can get it at such fine blogs as The Rejectionist and Pimp My Novel. Plus, it's time for INTERN to clear her mental plate for new projects and adventures.
So here's the deal:
INTERN might wander back to this blog now and then if/when she has something to say about writing/publishing/books. No idea when or how frequently.
If you'd like to be alerted to INTERN's other projects and adventures, then shoot an e-mail to internspills [at] gmail [dot] com, introduce yourself, say hello. INTERN would be delighted to hear from you, would sincerely love to get to know you better, and promises to write back. INTERN will also remain available for manuscript critiques and other stuff for former/current and new clients.
This has all been so wonderful and has brought so much joy and excitement to a seriously lowly INTERN's life. INTERN is actually shaking as she writes this because she's remembering how truly happy and ridiculous the past fifteen months have been (also, she has had way, way too much caffeine). Thanks to all of you for reading, and a special thanks to people like Editorial Anonymous and Editorial Ass whose bloggerly generosity in the first few months were a great encouragement to INTERN.
INTERN will now take a break from eulogizing to answer a question you might have, namely, Where is INTERN going from here?
Well, right now INTERN and Techie Boyfriend are living in a highly dubious motor vehicle INTERN bought with the last remnants of her freelance money. INTERN is finishing a novel she's been "working on" (aka painfully tearing apart and rewriting) for over a year and is probably going to try her hand at writing another blog about a different subject (the steel industry! mushroom identification! the repair and maintenance of highly dubious motor vehicles!). Writing about writing and publishing in this blog has made INTERN more aware of the ways in which her own writing is inadequate and immature, and she wants to spend the next few years (or, um lifetime) honing and practicing until her own fiction is up to the standards she has described in this blog.
So if you ever see a white 1985 Toyota pickup with a supremely unlikely-looking camper shell lurking outside your house, apartment, or bookstore, know that there is an INTERN sitting crosslegged in the back with her laptop or notebook, writing and writing with an earnest (or is that manic?) glint in her eye. Knock on the window if you like (but please be sure to simultaneously announce that you are not the police or some kind of assassin, because INTERN is easily spooked). INTERN can also be easily lured out of her hatch by a trail of granola or other such INTERN-friendly snack.
Thanks again, and please do write to say hello.
Now get out of here and go revise something before INTERN gets emotional. You'll all do great.
It's been fifteen months since a young and wide-eyed INTERN started this blog. Everything was so exciting! There were publishing secrets to uncover and manuscript snafus to ponder and Nemesis Interns to thwart.
Then, INTERN spent some time nailing down some thoughts on revision and book-buying habits.
After a few months of that, INTERN missed publishing so much she did a second internship and learned all about how Distinguished and oh-so-Selective publishers (and their authors) can be sort of crazy.
Shortly after, INTERN fled the venerable confines of that internship in order to stumble awkwardly through her own book's release and promotion while trying and, INTERN admits, probably failing to not let her anonymity become annoying.
And now, dear readers, dearest dears, most beautiful and friendly and clever ones, INTERN has said just about everything she feels like saying about publishing and writing. INTERN has emptied the junk drawer of her brain on this matter and all that's left are child-sized band-aids and dried-up rubber bands. INTERN does not want to dilute this blog with posts that aren't 100% stoked and earnest and alive, because y'all deserve better and can get it at such fine blogs as The Rejectionist and Pimp My Novel. Plus, it's time for INTERN to clear her mental plate for new projects and adventures.
So here's the deal:
INTERN might wander back to this blog now and then if/when she has something to say about writing/publishing/books. No idea when or how frequently.
If you'd like to be alerted to INTERN's other projects and adventures, then shoot an e-mail to internspills [at] gmail [dot] com, introduce yourself, say hello. INTERN would be delighted to hear from you, would sincerely love to get to know you better, and promises to write back. INTERN will also remain available for manuscript critiques and other stuff for former/current and new clients.
This has all been so wonderful and has brought so much joy and excitement to a seriously lowly INTERN's life. INTERN is actually shaking as she writes this because she's remembering how truly happy and ridiculous the past fifteen months have been (also, she has had way, way too much caffeine). Thanks to all of you for reading, and a special thanks to people like Editorial Anonymous and Editorial Ass whose bloggerly generosity in the first few months were a great encouragement to INTERN.
INTERN will now take a break from eulogizing to answer a question you might have, namely, Where is INTERN going from here?
Well, right now INTERN and Techie Boyfriend are living in a highly dubious motor vehicle INTERN bought with the last remnants of her freelance money. INTERN is finishing a novel she's been "working on" (aka painfully tearing apart and rewriting) for over a year and is probably going to try her hand at writing another blog about a different subject (the steel industry! mushroom identification! the repair and maintenance of highly dubious motor vehicles!). Writing about writing and publishing in this blog has made INTERN more aware of the ways in which her own writing is inadequate and immature, and she wants to spend the next few years (or, um lifetime) honing and practicing until her own fiction is up to the standards she has described in this blog.
So if you ever see a white 1985 Toyota pickup with a supremely unlikely-looking camper shell lurking outside your house, apartment, or bookstore, know that there is an INTERN sitting crosslegged in the back with her laptop or notebook, writing and writing with an earnest (or is that manic?) glint in her eye. Knock on the window if you like (but please be sure to simultaneously announce that you are not the police or some kind of assassin, because INTERN is easily spooked). INTERN can also be easily lured out of her hatch by a trail of granola or other such INTERN-friendly snack.
Thanks again, and please do write to say hello.
Now get out of here and go revise something before INTERN gets emotional. You'll all do great.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
5 thoughts on book promotion
After being detained in Dame Murderpool's bone-chilling basement cell for the better part of two weeks, INTERN escaped and has returned to North America, leaving Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor in Elmira's capable hands. (it's a long story. INTERN will save it for a rainy day).
Anyway, INTERN's book (still a secret) has been out for almost three months now, and while shivering in Dame Murderpool's cell, INTERN had the time to collect her thoughts on some things she's learned in that time.
-It helps to be friendly.
As opposed to being demanding, arrogant, vain, mean, prima donna-ish, or, in the words of INTERN's editorial assistant friend, "a f&^#ing psychopath." INTERN has been told this holds true outside of publishing too, but so far this has been unconfirmed.
-It helps to have people.
Mention you've just had a book published, and suddenly everybody you've ever met becomes your greatest spokesperson without you even needing to ask. INTERN's landlady spammed all 1,400 of her nearest and dearest e-mail contacts when INTERN told her about her book, and the librarians in INTERN's hometown all but took out a full-page ad in the local newspaper. It's not about "networking" or schmoozing up important-looking strangers at cocktail parties—just knowing people, pretty much any people, is fantastically useful. (PS: It helps if those people like you, or at least feel a kind of vague semi-approval in your direction—see previous point.)
-It helps to be innumerate.
As in, it helps to be so extraordinarily bad at math that you can blithely ignore the fact that for the time you spend promoting your book by maintaining a new blog, website, twitter and facebook page, getting up at 4 AM for radio interviews on the other side of the country, and having a nervous breakdown over your selection of outfits for a 15-second national TV spot in which you look like an anemic weasel, you will make approximately 75 cents per hour unless the sales are really, reaaaaally good.
-It helps to be available 24/7.
One of INTERN's publicist's favorite tricks is to call when INTERN is still in bed and say "Why haven't you written back to my e-mail yet?" in a voice that floods a very groggy INTERN's body with terror and adrenaline. Some radio and TV opportunities literally can't wait, and if you don't answer the phone on the first ring or hop in the first cab to the airport or whatever, there's no second chance. It can be hard to wrap your mind around the extent to which you're expected to be "on call" for potential media events, even several months after the book's release. But it's also a good sign, because it means your publisher's still pouring energy into your book.
-It helps to see everything as hilarious.
Book sales awesome? Hilarious!
Bizarre and possibly sinister Amazon review? Hilarious!
Radio host invents a sexy and outlandish bio for you on the fly? Hilarious!
So much of a book's success or failure depends on things you can't predict or control, so it's easier just to laugh at everything that happens in equal measure rather than get really psyched about the wins and really stressed about the downers.
**
And that's about all INTERN can think of for now.
Anyway, INTERN's book (still a secret) has been out for almost three months now, and while shivering in Dame Murderpool's cell, INTERN had the time to collect her thoughts on some things she's learned in that time.
-It helps to be friendly.
As opposed to being demanding, arrogant, vain, mean, prima donna-ish, or, in the words of INTERN's editorial assistant friend, "a f&^#ing psychopath." INTERN has been told this holds true outside of publishing too, but so far this has been unconfirmed.
-It helps to have people.
Mention you've just had a book published, and suddenly everybody you've ever met becomes your greatest spokesperson without you even needing to ask. INTERN's landlady spammed all 1,400 of her nearest and dearest e-mail contacts when INTERN told her about her book, and the librarians in INTERN's hometown all but took out a full-page ad in the local newspaper. It's not about "networking" or schmoozing up important-looking strangers at cocktail parties—just knowing people, pretty much any people, is fantastically useful. (PS: It helps if those people like you, or at least feel a kind of vague semi-approval in your direction—see previous point.)
-It helps to be innumerate.
As in, it helps to be so extraordinarily bad at math that you can blithely ignore the fact that for the time you spend promoting your book by maintaining a new blog, website, twitter and facebook page, getting up at 4 AM for radio interviews on the other side of the country, and having a nervous breakdown over your selection of outfits for a 15-second national TV spot in which you look like an anemic weasel, you will make approximately 75 cents per hour unless the sales are really, reaaaaally good.
-It helps to be available 24/7.
One of INTERN's publicist's favorite tricks is to call when INTERN is still in bed and say "Why haven't you written back to my e-mail yet?" in a voice that floods a very groggy INTERN's body with terror and adrenaline. Some radio and TV opportunities literally can't wait, and if you don't answer the phone on the first ring or hop in the first cab to the airport or whatever, there's no second chance. It can be hard to wrap your mind around the extent to which you're expected to be "on call" for potential media events, even several months after the book's release. But it's also a good sign, because it means your publisher's still pouring energy into your book.
-It helps to see everything as hilarious.
Book sales awesome? Hilarious!
Bizarre and possibly sinister Amazon review? Hilarious!
Radio host invents a sexy and outlandish bio for you on the fly? Hilarious!
So much of a book's success or failure depends on things you can't predict or control, so it's easier just to laugh at everything that happens in equal measure rather than get really psyched about the wins and really stressed about the downers.
**
And that's about all INTERN can think of for now.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Mystery and Deception and Manuscripts: part 3
The new intern has just arrived at Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Castle, where INTERN is holed up trying to save her great-uncle's ailing publishing house.
The new intern was a striking young lad of only sixteen. He strode in wearing a newsboy cap and smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe. He proffered his hand and INTERN shook it, impressed by the youth's confidant air.
"Manley Blacksmith, youngest son of Peter Blacksmith, at your service. Are there any query letters needs reading, then?"
Young Manley didn't waste any time. INTERN nodded approvingly.
"Welcome, Manley. As a matter of fact there's a whole pile of submissions that need sorting. You can work on that until The Gales of Thistledown Moor turns up, at which point the full range of your talents will be required."
INTERN was surprised to find herself speaking in such a formal manner. Perhaps the castle was getting to her.
She turned to Buckley, who was squinting at young Manley as if trying to figure out one of those Magic Eye pictures.
"Buckley?"
He ignored her. Instead, he pounced on the young intern, knocking off his cap. A pair of long red braids tumbled down from where they had been coiled, and Buckley let out a little yip of victory.
"I knew it—this intern is a fraud! Peter Blacksmith gave his youngest son to the monastery. This interloper is none other than the village milkmaid. I shall eject her from the premises at once."
He grabbed the young intern's arm.
"Stop that right now!" said INTERN. "She seems clever and efficient. She'll make a fine intern."
Buckley released her, his expression pained.
"But Miss INTERN—she's a girl."
INTERN arched an eyebrow at him and he rolled his eyes, reading her mind.
"You don't count, Miss INTERN, you're North American. Things are different here in Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor."
At this point, the young villager stepped up with her chin held high.
"Take me on, Miss. If you send me back to the village, I'll have to marry Hugh Hunchback and take care of his herd of cows, and he's eighty-five years old and his cows are even older. Plus I'm a hard worker and I'll do Spür Haus proud."
INTERN was relieved to hear her pronounce the house's name as it was intended to be pronounced. She smiled.
"What's your name?"
"Elmira Shackleton."
Buckley was shaking his head in disgust. INTERN ignored him.
"Well, Elmira Shackleton, welcome on board."
"Thank you ever so much, Miss."
Elmira paused for a moment, then her eyes lit up and she spoke again.
"I'd like tuppence a week."
"What's that?"
"Tuppence a week. Elmira Shackleton doesn't work for free, Miss."
INTERN grinned. This kid would go far. Before she had a chance to answer, Buckley exploded:
"Tuppence a week! Are you mad, girl? Interns don't get paid. You ought to be in the cowsheds swabbing dung!"
"That's quite enough Buckley!" said INTERN. "Elmira shall have her tuppence a week. And if she proves clever, she shall have sixpence. After that, two guineas!"
Buckley looked like he was about to faint. Elmira and INTERN exchanged a nod.
"Right then. I'll get started on those submissions," said Elmira, and set to work straight away.
INTERN turned to Buckley.
"Now Buckley, we'd better get started on that manuscript that's supposed to become a bestseller and save our publishing house. Where is it?"
Buckley scowled.
"You meanThe Gales of Thistledown Moor? I suppose the old lawyer didn't explain it, then."
"Explain what?"
"The manuscript was stolen by Dame Murderpoole on the day of your great-uncle's death."
"Who is Dame Murderpoole?"
Buckley rolled his eyes, still bitter at INTERN.
"None other than the notorious literary agent whose clients your great-uncle spurned for years."
"Is there a fast horse in the stable? Are her headquarters to the east or to the west?"
"I'd be careful if I were you, Miss INTERN. When Dame Murderpoole stole the manuscript, she also vowed to stop at nothing until every last descendent of the Baron's was dead as a spindlecob."
"But the Baron's last descendent is—"
"You," said Buckley. "Yes, Miss INTERN, the Baron's last descendent is you."
***
Will INTERN and co. retrieve the missing manuscript, or will it turn up on tomorrow's Publisher's Lunch? Will Dame Murderpoole fulfil her grisly vow? And how will Buckley adapt to the new, progressive culture at Spür Haus?
The new intern was a striking young lad of only sixteen. He strode in wearing a newsboy cap and smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe. He proffered his hand and INTERN shook it, impressed by the youth's confidant air.
"Manley Blacksmith, youngest son of Peter Blacksmith, at your service. Are there any query letters needs reading, then?"
Young Manley didn't waste any time. INTERN nodded approvingly.
"Welcome, Manley. As a matter of fact there's a whole pile of submissions that need sorting. You can work on that until The Gales of Thistledown Moor turns up, at which point the full range of your talents will be required."
INTERN was surprised to find herself speaking in such a formal manner. Perhaps the castle was getting to her.
She turned to Buckley, who was squinting at young Manley as if trying to figure out one of those Magic Eye pictures.
"Buckley?"
He ignored her. Instead, he pounced on the young intern, knocking off his cap. A pair of long red braids tumbled down from where they had been coiled, and Buckley let out a little yip of victory.
"I knew it—this intern is a fraud! Peter Blacksmith gave his youngest son to the monastery. This interloper is none other than the village milkmaid. I shall eject her from the premises at once."
He grabbed the young intern's arm.
"Stop that right now!" said INTERN. "She seems clever and efficient. She'll make a fine intern."
Buckley released her, his expression pained.
"But Miss INTERN—she's a girl."
INTERN arched an eyebrow at him and he rolled his eyes, reading her mind.
"You don't count, Miss INTERN, you're North American. Things are different here in Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor."
At this point, the young villager stepped up with her chin held high.
"Take me on, Miss. If you send me back to the village, I'll have to marry Hugh Hunchback and take care of his herd of cows, and he's eighty-five years old and his cows are even older. Plus I'm a hard worker and I'll do Spür Haus proud."
INTERN was relieved to hear her pronounce the house's name as it was intended to be pronounced. She smiled.
"What's your name?"
"Elmira Shackleton."
Buckley was shaking his head in disgust. INTERN ignored him.
"Well, Elmira Shackleton, welcome on board."
"Thank you ever so much, Miss."
Elmira paused for a moment, then her eyes lit up and she spoke again.
"I'd like tuppence a week."
"What's that?"
"Tuppence a week. Elmira Shackleton doesn't work for free, Miss."
INTERN grinned. This kid would go far. Before she had a chance to answer, Buckley exploded:
"Tuppence a week! Are you mad, girl? Interns don't get paid. You ought to be in the cowsheds swabbing dung!"
"That's quite enough Buckley!" said INTERN. "Elmira shall have her tuppence a week. And if she proves clever, she shall have sixpence. After that, two guineas!"
Buckley looked like he was about to faint. Elmira and INTERN exchanged a nod.
"Right then. I'll get started on those submissions," said Elmira, and set to work straight away.
INTERN turned to Buckley.
"Now Buckley, we'd better get started on that manuscript that's supposed to become a bestseller and save our publishing house. Where is it?"
Buckley scowled.
"You meanThe Gales of Thistledown Moor? I suppose the old lawyer didn't explain it, then."
"Explain what?"
"The manuscript was stolen by Dame Murderpoole on the day of your great-uncle's death."
"Who is Dame Murderpoole?"
Buckley rolled his eyes, still bitter at INTERN.
"None other than the notorious literary agent whose clients your great-uncle spurned for years."
"Is there a fast horse in the stable? Are her headquarters to the east or to the west?"
"I'd be careful if I were you, Miss INTERN. When Dame Murderpoole stole the manuscript, she also vowed to stop at nothing until every last descendent of the Baron's was dead as a spindlecob."
"But the Baron's last descendent is—"
"You," said Buckley. "Yes, Miss INTERN, the Baron's last descendent is you."
***
Will INTERN and co. retrieve the missing manuscript, or will it turn up on tomorrow's Publisher's Lunch? Will Dame Murderpoole fulfil her grisly vow? And how will Buckley adapt to the new, progressive culture at Spür Haus?
Friday, July 9, 2010
Mystery and Deception and—no, breaking news!
When we left off last time, a mysterious rhyming intern had just arrived from the village.
However, INTERN cannot update you on the events at Shamsbury-pon-Spoor Castle because her head is still reeling from news of the vicious memoir battle that is rocking the UK.
Says the London Evening Standard:
Dames! Queens! Secrecy! Deception! MANUSCRIPTS!
INTERN just heard on the radio that the parties involved have agreed to settle the matter by duel.
Dueling memoirists keep stiff upper lips.
However, INTERN cannot update you on the events at Shamsbury-pon-Spoor Castle because her head is still reeling from news of the vicious memoir battle that is rocking the UK.
Says the London Evening Standard:
New Labour may be well and truly dead but the memoirs fight is raging in a summer that will pit the former Labour leader against his oldest and closest ally.
Lord Mandelson has effectively scooped his former boss, Tony Blair, by giving an exclusive interview to tomorrow's Times after selling his memoirs to the pugnacious literary queen Victoria Barnsley at HarperCollins.
Meanwhile, at Random House, Tony Blair's recollections of his time at the top, The Journey, will be published in September by Gail Rebuck, the newly honoured Dame, who has social connections across politics and publishing and among London's cultural elites.
The £4.6 million deal has been long publicised but any details are treated as a state secret.
Dames! Queens! Secrecy! Deception! MANUSCRIPTS!
INTERN just heard on the radio that the parties involved have agreed to settle the matter by duel.
Dueling memoirists keep stiff upper lips.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Mystery and Deception and Manuscripts: Part 2
When last we left off, INTERN had just stumbled into her late great-uncle's publishing office, located behind a trick bookshelf in a crumbling Cornwall castle. Will INTERN succeed at fulfilling her great-uncle's dying wish, and claim her rightful place as Baroness Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor?
INTERN heard the bookshelf grind into place behind her. Before her lay the wood-pannelled offices of Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Editions. A lithe old man dressed entirely in tweed with a beard that reached down to his knees jumped up from his place behind an antique rolltop desk and came hurrying towards her.
"Oh Miss INTERN, I am so frightfully glad you've arrived. You're the spitting image of your great-uncle the Baron, God slather his soul with butter. I'm Buckley, the editorial assistant. At your service."
With those words, the old man took an elaborate bow. INTERN looked him over skeptically. Editorial assistant? The poor chap must be two hundred years old! INTERN's great-uncle must have been stingy with promotions.
"Your office is right this way, Miss. I've just put fresh candles in the candelabras. Do follow me."
INTERN followed Buckley to the back of the room, where a carved oak door opened onto a smaller, even more richly furnished office with a massive desk. Silver candelabras burned at either ends of the desk, dripping white wax onto the mahogany. Manuscripts written on parchment paper littered the floor. She turned to ask Buckley a question, but he was already retreating from the room.
"If you'll excuse me Miss, I'll go make you a pot of tea. The intern should be arriving from the village any day now, but it's a day's walk to the castle and I suppose this dreadful weather's held him up. Make yourself right at home. I'm sure you'll set the press' finances right as rain in no time—the late Baron always said you would."
With that, Buckley disappeared. INTERN sank into the Louis IV chair behind the desk, overwhelmed by the task ahead. Buckley was clearly counting on her to save the press. But where was the manuscript for The Gales of Thistledown Moor?
INTERN reached down and began to sift through the piles of manuscripts on the floor. There were dozens of seafaring how-to manuscripts written out in a shaky hand, a few Gothic romances and etiquette manuals, and what seemed to be a 2000-page family saga with long slashes of red pen through most of its paragraphs.
The Gales of Thistledown Moor was nowhere to be found.
Forbidding herself to succumb to despair, INTERN did what any reasonable newly-minted executive editor would do: she took out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen and started to draft a press release.
If Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Editions was going to succeed, thought INTERN, things would have to change. The whole joint was clearly stuck in the MIddle Ages, and it didn't stand a chance in the digital age. First thing to go, thought INTERN, would have to be the name. Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Editions was too wordy, too stale. How could she bring it into the modern world while acknowledging the press' history?
Sham2? ShamPoSpo? SPTS2010? House of Spoor Editions?
No.
Suddenly, INTERN had a flash of inspiration.
Spür Haus.
It was short. It was modern. It looked vaguely like something you'd buy at Ikea.
INTERN took up the quill pen that was lying on the desk and wrote the press release announcing the relaunch of Spür Haus to the world.
When Buckley came back with the tea, INTERN thanked him and assigned him his first task: proofread the press release and send it out. Buckley seemed inordinately pleased to be given something to do.
"Right away, Miss INTERN. Oh, it's been years since we've sent out a press release, this is exciting."
Half an hour later, INTERN wandered out of her office to check on Buckley's progress. He was standing behind a mimeograph machine from the 1887 which looked strangely futuristic in the midst of the even older office furnishings. He handed her a copy of the press release eagerly.
When she saw it, INTERN blanched.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEAfE: fHAMfBURY-PON-THE-fPOOR HOUfE If PLEAfED TO ANNOUNCE THAT IT WILL BE RE-LAUNCHING IN FALL 2010 as fPUR HAUf.
INTERN hardly had to read further than the first line to realize what Buckley had done. He had proofread it, yes—but proofread it according to his own antique standards.
"Buckley, you haven't already started sending these out, have you?"
"Why of course, Miss. Two hundred copies have gone out to all the London newspapers, a hundred to Constantinople, and hundreds more to the rest of the Empire and the New World. Is that a problem?"
Buckley looked so anxious and earnest that INTERN didn't have the heart to tell him what he'd done.
INTERN was now the executive editor of a failing publishing company called Fpur Hauf, and there was no taking it back.
Before she had the chance to decide what to do next, there was a loud knocking on the trick bookshelf. A low, rough voice called out, "Oi, I'm the nocturne and cistern!"
INTERN looked at Buckley in puzzlement. He bowed slightly. "It seems the new intern has finally arrived."
***
Will INTERN be able to steer Fpür Hauf into modern waters? Will Buckley ever be able to make the cut as a 21st century editorial assistant? Who is this rough new intern from the village? And where, oh where, is The Gales of Thistledown Moor? Find out next time INTERN has internet access from this rocky and desolate coast.
INTERN heard the bookshelf grind into place behind her. Before her lay the wood-pannelled offices of Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Editions. A lithe old man dressed entirely in tweed with a beard that reached down to his knees jumped up from his place behind an antique rolltop desk and came hurrying towards her.
"Oh Miss INTERN, I am so frightfully glad you've arrived. You're the spitting image of your great-uncle the Baron, God slather his soul with butter. I'm Buckley, the editorial assistant. At your service."
With those words, the old man took an elaborate bow. INTERN looked him over skeptically. Editorial assistant? The poor chap must be two hundred years old! INTERN's great-uncle must have been stingy with promotions.
"Your office is right this way, Miss. I've just put fresh candles in the candelabras. Do follow me."
INTERN followed Buckley to the back of the room, where a carved oak door opened onto a smaller, even more richly furnished office with a massive desk. Silver candelabras burned at either ends of the desk, dripping white wax onto the mahogany. Manuscripts written on parchment paper littered the floor. She turned to ask Buckley a question, but he was already retreating from the room.
"If you'll excuse me Miss, I'll go make you a pot of tea. The intern should be arriving from the village any day now, but it's a day's walk to the castle and I suppose this dreadful weather's held him up. Make yourself right at home. I'm sure you'll set the press' finances right as rain in no time—the late Baron always said you would."
With that, Buckley disappeared. INTERN sank into the Louis IV chair behind the desk, overwhelmed by the task ahead. Buckley was clearly counting on her to save the press. But where was the manuscript for The Gales of Thistledown Moor?
INTERN reached down and began to sift through the piles of manuscripts on the floor. There were dozens of seafaring how-to manuscripts written out in a shaky hand, a few Gothic romances and etiquette manuals, and what seemed to be a 2000-page family saga with long slashes of red pen through most of its paragraphs.
The Gales of Thistledown Moor was nowhere to be found.
Forbidding herself to succumb to despair, INTERN did what any reasonable newly-minted executive editor would do: she took out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen and started to draft a press release.
If Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Editions was going to succeed, thought INTERN, things would have to change. The whole joint was clearly stuck in the MIddle Ages, and it didn't stand a chance in the digital age. First thing to go, thought INTERN, would have to be the name. Shamsbury-pon-the-Spoor Editions was too wordy, too stale. How could she bring it into the modern world while acknowledging the press' history?
Sham2? ShamPoSpo? SPTS2010? House of Spoor Editions?
No.
Suddenly, INTERN had a flash of inspiration.
Spür Haus.
It was short. It was modern. It looked vaguely like something you'd buy at Ikea.
INTERN took up the quill pen that was lying on the desk and wrote the press release announcing the relaunch of Spür Haus to the world.
When Buckley came back with the tea, INTERN thanked him and assigned him his first task: proofread the press release and send it out. Buckley seemed inordinately pleased to be given something to do.
"Right away, Miss INTERN. Oh, it's been years since we've sent out a press release, this is exciting."
Half an hour later, INTERN wandered out of her office to check on Buckley's progress. He was standing behind a mimeograph machine from the 1887 which looked strangely futuristic in the midst of the even older office furnishings. He handed her a copy of the press release eagerly.
When she saw it, INTERN blanched.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEAfE: fHAMfBURY-PON-THE-fPOOR HOUfE If PLEAfED TO ANNOUNCE THAT IT WILL BE RE-LAUNCHING IN FALL 2010 as fPUR HAUf.
INTERN hardly had to read further than the first line to realize what Buckley had done. He had proofread it, yes—but proofread it according to his own antique standards.
"Buckley, you haven't already started sending these out, have you?"
"Why of course, Miss. Two hundred copies have gone out to all the London newspapers, a hundred to Constantinople, and hundreds more to the rest of the Empire and the New World. Is that a problem?"
Buckley looked so anxious and earnest that INTERN didn't have the heart to tell him what he'd done.
INTERN was now the executive editor of a failing publishing company called Fpur Hauf, and there was no taking it back.
Before she had the chance to decide what to do next, there was a loud knocking on the trick bookshelf. A low, rough voice called out, "Oi, I'm the nocturne and cistern!"
INTERN looked at Buckley in puzzlement. He bowed slightly. "It seems the new intern has finally arrived."
***
Will INTERN be able to steer Fpür Hauf into modern waters? Will Buckley ever be able to make the cut as a 21st century editorial assistant? Who is this rough new intern from the village? And where, oh where, is The Gales of Thistledown Moor? Find out next time INTERN has internet access from this rocky and desolate coast.
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