07/17/17

How many query letters does it take to find an agent?

The answer, in my case, is 160. (No, this is not a joke!)

I wrote this post in April about my path to publication. Last month I gave a talk on the same subject at the London Writers Society general meeting. Audience members told me they found the statistics I gave them regarding my agent search both sobering and inspiring, so I’m going to share those details here.

This is the spreadsheet I used when I started querying agents. I’ve removed the names of the specific agents and literary agencies, but their responses are recorded in the right-hand column. I changed the line from “sent” to “rejected” when I received the rejection letters, but if I received no response, the line remains “sent.”

Here are the statistics for each novel I queried between 2008 and 2014:

Novel 1 (2008-09)
Query letters sent: 54
Requests: 3 (partial manuscript)

Novel 2 (2010-12)
Query letters sent: 30
Requests: 1 (partial manuscript)

Novel 3 (2013-14)
Query letters sent: 76
Requests: 13 (full manuscript)

Laura Crockett of TriadaUS Literary Agency offered representation and became my agent in Fall 2014. Interestingly, I signed with Laura for Novel 3, but Novel 1 (Impossible Saints) is actually being published first. If you’re wondering what happened between receiving Laura’s offer of representation and receiving the offer of publication for Impossible Saints from Pegasus Books, you can read Laura’s excellent blog post about that journey.

Yes, it took 6 years, 3 novels, and 160 queries for me to find an agent. It probably didn’t need to take that long. In hindsight, I think I started searching for an agent too soon, before my novel was ready.

I did some things right: I researched specific agents who represented historical fiction and was careful to give them what they asked for (e.g. Just a query letter? A letter and the first ten pages of the manuscript?). AgentQuery.com was the main resource I used to find agents who represented novels in my genre, and I highly recommend it.

The main thing I did wrong and the way in which my novel wasn’t ready was that it was ridiculously long, around 180,000 words (the recommended range for most novels is 80,000 to 100,000 words). I knew my novel was longer than most guidelines suggested, but I had plenty of reasons why it needed to be that long (it covered a large span of time, there were lots of characters, etc). Besides, every word was precious and I needed them all, or so I thought. The real truth was that I was afraid of revision and didn’t want to take the whole thing apart in case I might not be able to put it back together again! But I wish I had listened to the advice from people in the publishing industry and not given agents a reason to reject my manuscript right out of the gate.

I knew quite early in the process with the third novel that I was getting closer to an offer of representation because I was getting more requests for the manuscript, and instead of form rejections, I received personalized rejection letters. If you’re not a writer, you have no idea how exciting that first personalized rejection letter is!

If I could say one thing to aspiring authors, it would be this: don’t give up! (And be willing to revise your work so many times that you lose count.)

If you’d like to participate in a Twitter chat on the subject of successful queries and pitches this evening with a group of debut authors whose books will be published in 2018, see the information below. I’m happy to answer your questions!

 

06/9/17

Book Cover Announcement for IMPOSSIBLE SAINTS

I’m thrilled to reveal the cover for Impossible Saints, to be published by Pegasus in January 2018!

To give you some context, here’s a bit of the jacket cover copy: “Escaping the constraints of life as a village schoolmistress, Lilia Brooke bursts into London and into Paul Harris’s orderly life, shattering his belief that women are gentle creatures who need protection. Lilia wants to change women’s lives by advocating for the vote, free unions, and contraception. Paul, an Anglican priest, has a big ambition of his own: to become the youngest dean of St. John’s Cathedral. Lilia doesn’t believe in God, but she’s attracted to Paul’s intellect, ethics, and dazzling smile.”

The design team at Pegasus did an amazing job of weaving the central themes of the book into the cover. The woman in the centre perfectly represents Lilia and her fighting spirit. I also love the way the designers incorporated the WSPU colours (purple, white, and green) into the design. The Women’s Social and Political Union, the best-known group of militant suffragettes in the early 20th century, chose purple for dignity, white for purity, and green for hope.

Although Paul doesn’t appear on the cover, his work as a cathedral clergyman is cleverly depicted in the stained-glass motif. His beloved church tradition and history, also cleverly represented with the scroll at the top, contrast with Lilia’s more modern feminist concerns.

I love the questions raised by this design. Does it represent a clash of two worlds, or do those worlds complement each other? Does the stained glass surround Lilia like a trap, reflecting her fears about all things religious? Or is she pushing past the borders to take centre stage? And what about that halo around her head? Is it ironic, given that Lilia is hardly a saint? Or does it suggest that she (and perhaps Paul too) is a different kind of icon?

What do you think?

In a month or so, I’ll post links to online retailers and Goodreads so you can add the book to your TBR list. I’m very excited that Impossible Saints is one step closer to being out in the world!

04/3/17

The Impossible Novel that became IMPOSSIBLE SAINTS

 

 

 

I’m thrilled to share my book deal announcement (above) from Publisher’s Marketplace! Because book deal announcements don’t show the long and rocky road to publication, I’m going to share some of that journey here.

I am both surprised and not surprised that IMPOSSIBLE SAINTS is the first of my novels to be published. I’m surprised because I gave up on it so many times. I’m not surprised because, as corny as it sounds, this is the book of my heart that wouldn’t give up on me!

This is a tale of several novels, so I’m going to give them numbers for easy identification. Novel #1 was the first novel I wrote in my twenties. It was terrible. Some novels are meant never to see the light of day, and Novel #1 was one of them. I have no desire to ever revisit or publish that first novel, but I’m grateful for its existence because it sparked the creation of Paul and Lilia, the protagonists of Novel #2 (IMPOSSIBLE SAINTS). I was imagining what the children of my Novel #1 characters would be like, and Paul and Lilia popped into my head.

In my head they stayed for another ten years or so. I was too busy finishing my PhD and trying to start an academic career to even think about writing another novel for a long time, but these two characters stayed in the back of my mind, plotting a future for themselves without my conscious knowledge.

I began writing Novel #2 about ten years ago, when Paul and Lilia’s voices became too loud to ignore. Unfortunately, I mistook the rush of excitement while I wrote it for good writing. That rush of excitement said nothing about the quality of my writing but more about allowing myself to do what I’d denied myself for years. Like many a new writer, I fell in love with my own words and didn’t think the novel needed serious revision.

My biggest mistake was thinking that because I had a PhD in English Literature and taught academic writing, I would automatically be good at writing novels. Pride, in other words, didn’t let me learn from my first critique group when they pointed out (sometimes none too gently) where I’d gone wrong. I remember one well-intentioned fellow writer struggling to explain what was wrong with my scene, then dropping head in hands and saying, “I find your characters unattractive.”

Unattractive? I had no idea what my colleague meant, besides which, how dare this person insult my babies? Other, more specific criticisms followed from other critique partners, and I’m embarrassed to admit that more than once I went home after critique meetings and wept in my dark living room, vowing never again to show anyone what I’d written! (If there’s a way to grow a thick skin, I haven’t found it yet.)

In hindsight I can see that I was far too close to Novel #2 to see it clearly enough to revise it. I invested too much of myself in it, but that’s also why it was such a joy to write. It was everything a first draft should be: too long, repetitive, self-indulgent, and confusing. In other words, what was an utter delight to write was a complete nightmare to read. I couldn’t understand why others didn’t love my characters the way I did.

I tried to find an agent with this early version of Novel #2, only to receive nearly one hundred form rejection letters. It appeared that this was one of those “trunked” novels that every novelist has in her past. A practice novel, something that needed to be written but would never be published.

I moved on to Novel #3, which I wasn’t as emotionally invested in. I’d been burned and didn’t want to give my heart away again. But there are many kinds of love (!), and my relationship with these new characters was more like a successful arranged marriage: I came to love them as I spent more time with them. Even better, I became willing to learn how to write a story that people actually wanted to read. This involved massive revision. Not what I used to call revision, which was really just rearranging sentences or changing a word here and there. I came to understand that no writer is so good at writing that she doesn’t need to revise. And that means deleting and rewriting entire subplots, scenes, and characters. It means the final draft of a novel might be unrecognizable compared to the first draft.

I started querying agents for Novel #3, and I again received some form rejections. But there were other responses too. Agents started to send me personalized rejection letters (if you’re not a writer you have no idea how exciting a personalized rejection is after getting hundreds of form ones!). These letters mentioned my characters by name and suggested revisions that would make the book better. I was flattered that agents would take the time to read my book so carefully and write such long, encouraging letters. Some of them even asked me to send them my next novel. This was the turning point.

Some months later, Novel #3 caught the eye of the person who became my agent, the amazing Laura Crockett at TriadaUS! And in case you think that’s the end of the story, it’s not. Laura has described our journey together in this lovely blog post. Signing with an agent usually involves signing up for a whole new level of rejection, this time from editors at publishing houses. This time the sting of rejection was softened by Laura’s encouragement, but it was still rejection. We decided to set Novel #3 aside for a while. By this time I had written Novel #4, and I was polishing it to get it ready for Laura to pitch to editors.

But Paul and Lilia from Novel #2 still poked me in the back from time to time, reminding me of their existence, so one day I dug out their story again. Setting it aside for several years had given me the distance I needed: I was excited by its potential and able to see clearly what needed fixing. I also gave it to a few beta readers whose excellent suggestions helped me cut, slap, and beat Novel #2 into shape. Then I showed it to Laura, whose excitement buoyed me up during the months of waiting that followed. Then Katie at Pegasus Books sent Laura an offer and made me one very happy author!

There will be more edits before IMPOSSIBLE SAINTS is published, but after almost twenty years from idea to final draft, it’s a wonderful feeling to know that Paul and Lilia’s story will finally be out in the world and available to readers in early 2018!

03/7/17

What’s Wrong with This Picture?

Take a look at this photo. The people in it are high school students on their way to make professional presentations at a business competition. Do you notice anything unusual?

Young men and women stances

 

Perhaps you see nothing unusual about the photo because it’s common to see men and women in these types of stances. But the differences between genders are painfully clear. The men stand confidently, legs apart, one hand clasping the other wrist. In contrast, the young women look awkward and unstable, teetering on high heels, knees knocking together. The woman on the left seems to be fidgeting with her clothes. It’s hard to believe this is still happening in 2017.

Even before “Pantsuit Nation,” I knew there was something wrong with typical business clothing for women. Even today, trousers are often considered inappropriate for businesswomen. What is acceptable, or even required, in most workplaces? Skirts, pantyhose, and high heels, despite the fact that this clothing forces a woman to be off balance, keep her legs tightly together, and have her middle restricted as effectively as if she were wearing a 19th-century corset. As toddlers, we see our mothers dressing up, whether for parties or business meetings, and learn that this pinching-in and crippling of our natural bodies is expected of us too when we grow up to become women.

It’s second nature to me when I’m in meetings or even just in public to make myself smaller, to close in on myself, whether by crossing my legs or keeping my elbows pinned to my sides. I see other women doing the same. Sometimes I take a more expansive, confident posture, but to do that I must be deliberate and concentrate on how I arrange my body.

I was fifteen years old the day I learned that I was a woman, and I don’t mean biologically. My family lived in a rural area and had driven into the nearest city for the day. My parents had dropped off my younger brother and I at the public library while they did errands. We left the library to go to the spot where our parents were picking us up. We had to cross the street to get to the family car, and as we were waiting for the walk signal at the street corner, a couple of men in a pickup truck pulled up to the traffic light. They were no more than ten feet away from where my brother and I stood.

It was a warm spring day, and the men had rolled down their windows.

“Hey, I really like red shoes,” I heard one of them say.

I was wearing red shoes. I looked around furtively to see if there was anyone else wearing red shoes. My brother and I were the only pedestrians in sight, and he was not wearing red shoes (it was a slow day on the prairies).

“Ooh, I really like white pants,” the other man said.

I was wearing white pants.

Well, this was awkward. The men were laughing, and my eleven-year-old brother started to chuckle too, not sure what to do.

I don’t remember what I did. I know I didn’t speak to the men or even look at them directly.

I do remember how I felt: Confused. They were laughing, and what they said could be taken as a compliment, but the way they were saying it was weird, almost like an insult. I couldn’t figure out if they were mocking me, insulting me, or trying to make me feel good.

I didn’t feel good. The truck was obstructing my view of my parents’ car. I was afraid the men would get out of the truck and approach me. Would they try to kidnap or attack me?

The light changed and they drove away. My brother and I hurried to my parents’ car and got in. I don’t remember if either of us told them about the incident.

Every woman at some point in her life realizes that the majority of men view her as an object. They might sugar-coat this objectification by saying, “but it was a compliment” or “why do you dress like that if you don’t want us to speak to/look at/touch you?” It doesn’t occur to them that women sometimes like to look nice, even sexy, just for themselves, and that their clothes don’t represent an open invitation for sex. Witness the recent firestorm of controversy about Emma Watson’s revealing photo. I’m baffled by the people who think her decision to pose for this photo negates her feminist views.

It’s because of the photo of the high school students at the beginning of this post, because I remember being that confused fifteen year-old, and because my students still begin sentences with the words “I’m not a feminist, but . . .” that I am participating in A Day Without a Woman tomorrow, which is also International Women’s Day. I will go on strike along with many others around the world by doing three things:

  1. I will take the day off work
  2. I will not shop.
  3. I will wear red (but not red shoes!).

Will you consider doing the same?

 

01/10/17

My Week of (Attempted) Reading Deprivation

no-booksI first heard about Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity (1992) in a writers’ workshop a few years ago. It sounded intriguing, so I bought it. It sat on my bookshelf unopened for another year or so. Then I read it, but parts of it scared me, and I wasn’t ready to commit wholeheartedly to the 12-week program. Instead, I took bits and pieces of it that I was ready to try, such as the Morning Pages. (If you haven’t tried this specialized kind of journaling, it’s an amazing head-clearing tool and I highly recommend it!)

About a month ago I decided to commit to the whole program. The main reason I didn’t commit to it earlier is because some of the tasks seemed silly and unproductive. But as Cameron suggests, what you most resist is often what you most need. Last week’s task was the craziest and most terrifying of all: stop reading for seven days.

This is Cameron’s rationale for the week of reading deprivation:

For most artists, words are like tiny tranquilizers. We have a daily quota of media chat that we swallow up. Like greasy food, it clogs our systems. Too much of it and we feel, yes, fried. It is a paradox that by emptying our lives of distractions we are actually filling the well.

Reading deprivation casts us into our inner silence, a space some of us begin to immediately fill with new words—long, gossipy conversations, television bingeing, the radio as a constant, chatty companion. We often cannot hear our own inner voice, the voice of our artist’s inspiration, above the static.

Our reward [for reading deprivation] will be a new outflow. Our own art, our own thoughts and feelings, will begin to nudge aside the sludge of blockage, to loosen it and move it upward and outward until once again our well is running freely.

Although I’d read The Artist’s Way before, I had forgotten about the reading deprivation, and I reacted the same way Cameron says her students commonly do, with shock and anger. My reactions followed the typical five stages of grief (with apologies to people who are grieving the loss of more important things and people):

  1. Denial: You want me to do what? Not read? Reading is my life! You don’t really mean that. I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.
  2. Anger: Who do you think you are, telling me not to read? I have to read for work. If I don’t read I’ll lose my mind/job/friends/Twitter followers. Only a moron would tell me not to read.
  3. Bargaining: Ok, I won’t read novels, but I will read online articles. Surely that’s acceptable. Nobody avoids online reading. They do? Ok, I won’t read articles but I’ll still read my e-mail. I have to read e-mail, right? No? Fine. I’ll just read work e-mails.
  4. Depression: I’m not reading. All I want to do is read. How will I survive this week without reading? Nothing matters. I want to die.
  5. Acceptance: I never actually reached this stage because I cheated (more on that below). I did manage to avoid reading novels, though, which was a feat in itself.

The first day of reading deprivation was the hardest. It was January 1, a holiday. No stores or businesses were open, so I couldn’t mask the horror of reading deprivation by doing errands or going shopping. I was also expecting a shipment of new books that I’d planned to start reading that week, so the timing was particularly bad.

As the week went on, I began to cheat, first in little ways, then big ones. Working out at the gym without listening to an audio book was so horrible that I’ll never repeat that experience again. Then I found myself “needing” to Google certain things. I began to check Twitter “just for five minutes” to see if anyone was saying anything interesting. I felt the need to re-read parts of my writing craft books.

Then the new books I’d ordered started to arrive. I left them in their original packaging for a couple of days because I knew if I opened them, the temptation to read would be too great. Then I opened them (this was day 4) and petted the covers. By day 5 I was sneaking a peek inside and reading prologues and first chapters. (Yes, Tara Sim, I’m talking about YOUR new book!)

Here’s what I learned from my attempt at reading deprivation: that good things can get in the way of better things. That when I actually do deprive myself of all reading, including the internet, I have time to sit and stare out the window or have long, interesting conversations with my husband. I can also see that reading even the most soul-nourishing books can fill up up my head and prevent my own words from flowing. It can also help me avoid difficult people or problems that I don’t want to think about.

Reading deprivation is a kind of silence. I’ve never thought about myself as someone who’s afraid of silence. In fact, I’ve been made fun of for my love of silence. My husband sometimes grumbles that our house is like a tomb because he likes to have background music on while he works, but I usually ask him to use headphones so I don’t have to hear it. I love music and am a musician myself, but if I’m listening to music, I focus on that and don’t do anything else.

Although I’m used to silence in the literal sense (aside from cats purring, the best sound in the world!), I’m not used to silence in my brain, an absence of mental noise. And as much as I love reading, I’ve started to understand what Cameron means by the sort of mental noise reading can create.

I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions anymore, at least not ones like “lose weight” or “get more exercise,” but I do sometimes have a theme word or phrase for the year. 2017 will be the year in which I cultivate more mental silence. That includes another stab at reading deprivation when I’m feeling braver and more prepared. But right now I’m going to enjoy the new books that are waiting for me!

12/1/16

Confessions of a NaNoWriMo Loser

nano-keep-calmI woke up this morning knowing I am a loser. November is over, and with it, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Every November, people all over the world try to write a novel. The goal is to write 50,000 new words in that month, and anyone who meets that goal is declared a winner.

I’ve known about NaNoWriMo for years, but this was my first time participating. I’ve never been tempted to try it before, mainly because the timing wasn’t right (I wasn’t working on a first draft) and because I’ve always been a slow writer and knew I probably couldn’t keep up with the 1,666-word-per-day pace. My normal daily word count is 500-600 words.

The way I usually begin a writing session is to read what I wrote the previous day and edit it. But NaNo rules prohibit editing. It’s all about vomiting the words onto the page, not worrying about grammar, punctuation, or style. It’s a first draft, so the words are supposed to be rubbish. You’ll fix them in later drafts (and if you don’t, you’ll make agents and editors everywhere very unhappy!).

Anyone who knows me will know these rules offend my slow, careful, grammar-nerd self. But I decided I’d try NaNo this year anyway. The timing was perfect: I’ve been struggling with the first draft of my new novel for an embarrassingly long time, and I needed a fresh start. I looked forward to silencing my inner editor for a month and churning out those words.

The official NaNoWriMo website has forums for writers to discuss their progress or lack thereof, but when I perused the forums in early November, I was surprised to see how young many of the other writers were. Eighteen year-olds considered themselves old pros as they advised thirteen year-olds. When I complained to my husband that these writers made me feel ancient, he quipped, “You should start a new forum called NaNoWrimOld.”

I didn’t start that forum, but I did begin NaNo with mixed feelings: excitement, trepidation, curiosity. I had several writing buddies, two of whom I texted almost daily so we could keep one another accountable. I really enjoyed the community support. Even just the knowledge that so many other people were writing at the same time helped spur me on.

I was thrilled with my output the first few days: I managed 1,600 words every day. From then on, I gradually slowed down, ending November with a word count of just over 20,000. That’s 20,000 words more than I had a month ago, so even though I “lost” NaNo, I’m pleased with my progress. I also learned some valuable lessons:

1. It’s very freeing not having to worry about grammar, style, or even keeping a character’s motivations or eye colour consistent. I can fix all of those things later.
2. That famous statement attributed to William Stafford is true: “There is no such thing as writer’s block for those whose standards are low enough.” I lowered my standards and just put one word after the other, repeating the same ones sometimes just to get them out.
3. Since I allowed myself to jump from one scene to another, sometimes out of chronological order, I discovered some great new ideas for the plot that I don’t think I would have come up with otherwise.

I don’t like the winner/loser language of NaNo. Although the word “loser” isn’t used on the NaNo website, that’s what you are if you’re not a winner, right? But there’s nothing wrong with failing to meet one’s goal. I often think of an interview I saw with Sara Blakely, founder of Spanx and the youngest self-made female billionaire in the world. She was raised by a father who asked her every day, “what did you fail at today?” He was disappointed if the answer was “nothing.” That man gave his daughter a precious gift. When I see my students devastated by a less-than-perfect mark, friends paralyzed by failing to meet their bosses’ expectations, or my own worry that the novel I’m writing won’t be as good as the ideal version of it in my head, I realize that we all need to fail at something regularly.

What have you failed at lately? Can you celebrate the fact that you tried?

10/7/16

Wessex Wanderings

Max Gate (Hardy's house) from the back garden

Max Gate (Hardy’s house) from the back garden

In August I spent two weeks in the UK with my friend Jennifer, mainly doing research at the British Library in London and attending the Historical Novel Society conference in Oxford. In the middle of the trip, I took off alone for what I’d originally planned as a day trip to Dorset, but it turned into a one-night, then a two-night stay because I couldn’t tear myself away.

I’ve always wanted to go to Dorset because it’s Thomas Hardy country. When I tell people I’m a Hardy fan, I tend to get either blank looks or a pained grimace. Quite a few people have had bad experiences with Hardy’s novels and either dislike his tragic, pessimistic outlook on life or his sometimes ponderous prose. One year when I taught Jude the Obscure, a student came to my office and told me I should have warned the class about the dead baby scene (don’t worry, I’ll say no more about that). She said she was on the bus when she read it, and she immediately started crying. She considered me personally responsible for her public embarrassment.

Why do I love Hardy’s novels so much? Because of his larger-than-life characters who are nevertheless deeply human and sympathetic, the landscape that functions as a character itself, the operatic quality of the scenes, and yes, the tragedy. I love tragedy and find it as cathartic as Aristotle argued it should be.

Back to Dorset (also known as Wessex, the name Hardy used for it in his novels). When I disembarked from the train at Dorchester, Dorset’s county town, and stood on the  platform smiling at all the possibilities in front of me, an older gentleman approached me and (no doubt noticing the enormous Canada stickers on my suitcase) asked me what brought me to Dorchester.

“Thomas Hardy,” I proclaimed proudly.

“I’ve written about Hardy in my book,” he replied, and we were instant friends. He showed me around for a bit, then we parted with a plan to get together the next morning for coffee.

Here's Dr. John with Thomas Hardy at The Horse with the Red Umbrella

Dr. John with Thomas Hardy

The next day I plunged into literary tourist mode. After meeting my new friend Dr. John at a delightful café called The Horse with the Red Umbrella, I walked to Max Gate, the house Hardy designed and lived in until his death. I plopped myself down on a sofa in the parlour and had a wonderful talk with Judy #1, museum guide and fellow Hardy fan, about Hardy’s life and work. If you can’t find a Hardy fan in Hardy’s own house, where can you find one? Eventually I went upstairs and met Judy #2, with whom I had another nice chat. Apparently you can’t work at Hardy’s house unless your name is Judy!

The house was fascinating in its own right, but what interested me most was the attic where Hardy’s first wife, Emma, decided to move about twenty years into their marriage. I knew Hardy had been married twice but I knew very little about his wives. At Max Gate, I became fascinated by Emma, who had literary ambitions of her own, loved animals, and in later life supported women’s suffrage. What had made her move out of the marital bedroom into the tiny two-room attic? Judy #1 assured me this was no “madwoman in the attic” scenario. It was Emma’s choice to move into the attic, and her faculties were intact.

The dark little attic seemed sad, even after Judy #2 explained that in Emma’s time it was painted white and was more cheerful-looking. Apparently Emma came downstairs sometimes, mainly when Hardy had literary friends over. She loved to talk to other writers. But what a disastrous marriage!

Judy #2 told me a story about the day Emma died. She was still living in the attic, and her maid ran down to Hardy’s study and begged him to come upstairs because her mistress was seriously ill. Before going upstairs, he ordered the maid to straighten her collar (clearly not one of his finer moments). When he went up and saw how sick Emma really was, he was guilt-stricken, and he stayed that way for some time after her death. Most of the better-known poems he wrote about Emma were written during this wave of guilt and grief after she died. Inconveniently, he continued to write these poems while married to his second wife, Florence.

Joyce and David, with whom I got lost

Joyce and David, with whom I got lost

Pondering Hardy’s marital problems, I left Max Gate and took a path that the tourist map promised would lead me on a pleasant 90-minute walk on a public path through meadows, woods, and fields to another Hardy landmark, the cottage where he was born. I proceeded to get thoroughly lost.

Fortunately, I soon came across a man and woman intently perusing a large map. It turned out that they, too, were trying to find Hardy’s cottage. I asked if I could tag along, and that’s how David, Joyce and I became friends while unknowingly walking in large circles in the Dorset countryside. Instead of a pleasant 90-minute walk, it became an arduous three-and-a-half-hour adventure. At the end of it, we calculated that we had walked at least 15 miles that day (including the walking we had done before we met).

 

This is typical of the few maps we saw. Nothing marked "You are Here" or any indication of what A, B, or C might represent

There is no label indicating “You are Here,” or any indication of what A, B, or C might represent

Why didn’t we ask for directions, you say? We did. Some people told us to take the right-hand path, others told us to take the left. We had 3 or 4 tourist/hiking maps among us, and all had different directions. The path was not marked. The few maps or signs we did see were like this one in the photo.

After we finally reached our destination and I had a chance to rest and think about everything I’d learned that day, I found myself pondering the problem of confusing an author’s writings with his life, as well as what’s called in literary studies the “intentional fallacy.” We English professors constantly tell our students not to speculate about an author’s intentions when they interpret a text. Part of the legacy of postmodernism is that the reader has become more important than the author, and the text means more than its author intended. Trying to figure out the author’s intentions takes the focus off the text and can lead to a narrow biographical focus. Not every character an author creates corresponds to real people in his life. But students often resist being directed away from the author’s intentions and life.

As a properly-trained English major, I have no trouble ignoring the author’s life and intentions when studying and interpreting a literary text. As a result of this training, I actually knew much less about Hardy’s life than I did about his work and was surprised by what I learned in Dorset. My view of his love poems, so many of which were written after Emma’s death, completely changed. I’m still not sure whether the change is for better or for worse (no marital pun intended!).

I’ve always suspected that of the many authors whose writing I enjoy, I wouldn’t like most of them as people. Enid Blyton comes to mind immediately, but she’s an extreme example. I probably couldn’t stay in the same room for ten minutes with most of the male Victorians. I almost certainly wouldn’t like Thomas Hardy. But does this matter? Can’t we enjoy authors’ work without liking their personal traits or preferences?

I’ve heard more than one person say that if someone is a good writer, they must surely be a good person, yet people never talk about whether a visual artist or musician is a good person. Why, then, the preoccupation with a writer’s morality? I don’t have an answer. Do you?

08/11/16

Summer Nightmares

It’s been a crazy busy summer so far, and it shows no signs of letting up. As exciting as it’s been to buy a new house and sell our old one, it’s also been stressful. And when I’m stressed out, I have more dreams. More nightmares, actually. I know that several of my readers love to interpret dreams as much as I do, so I’m going to share two of my recent ones here.

It’s a seller’s market in our city this summer, and bidding wars are common, with nice houses being snapped up within hours of being listed. We were told we’d have to act quickly with a firm offer and no conditions, but I didn’t believe it until I experienced it for myself (and lost the first house we bid on). I am bad at making quick decisions. I am especially bad at making quick decisions about major purchases. I almost never buy anything, even shoes, the first time I see them. I usually wait 24 hours to make sure I really want them. Thus, it was terrifying to make offers on houses after looking at them quickly and only once.

We were successful with the second house we bid on. The backyard is as lovely as the house, filled with lush, leafy green plants and a big patio. But a few weeks after the buyer accepted our offer, and before seeing the house for the second time, I had an ominous dream.

Dream #1

This isn't exactly how the garden looked in my dream, but you get the idea.

This isn’t exactly how the garden looked in my dream, but you get the idea.

It is moving day. We go into the backyard and see nothing but bare earth with a few patches of dry yellow grass and a folded-up landscape cloth. The beautiful landscaping we saw the first time was fake, staged to make it look good. I awake gasping for breath, spooked by the barren wasteland that was so vivid in my dream.

A few days later, I told a psychologist friend about the dream.

“What do you think it means?” I asked in a hushed voice, waiting for the profound dream analysis that was sure to ensue.

“It means that you’re afraid the owner took all the plants,” she replied dryly.

She was right. Sometimes a backyard is just a backyard.

In addition to the house stress, I’ve been feeling stressed out by summer in general. Summer is my least favourite season, for these reasons:

1. Heat
2. Noise
3. Groups of people

Put all three together (e.g. an outdoor picnic or pool party), and you have my worst nightmare. Actually, if it’s a pool party, there’s an additional reason to hate summer:

4. Having to wear a swimsuit in public

The second nightmare I had relates to all but the last of these reasons, and it’s more complex than the first one.

Dream #2

This looks like fun to some people.

This probably looks like fun to some people.

My brother drops by and asks if he can stay with me and my husband for a while. (In reality, my brother died three years ago. I used to dream about him regularly, but he hasn’t shown up in my dreams lately, so it was good to see him again.)

The only trouble is there’s no room in the house for my brother to stay. A friend is already staying in the spare bedroom, and the overheated house is packed full of noisy people who seem to be relatives but look like a large, amorphous mass.

I don’t want to turn my brother away, but I know I can’t deal with one more person in my house. I ask him to wait a minute while I talk to my husband.

I go into another room, where I’m again surrounded by people. I tell them the problem and say I’ve decided to tell my brother he can’t stay with us. “That’s the right thing to do,” someone replies, and I feel better. However, the same person adds, “but it’s not the loving thing to do.” Huh?

Returning to my brother, I tell him there is no room for him to stay with us. He accepts my decision but looks disappointed. I am consumed by guilt. I try to explain, “If you’d called first, or let us know in advance, we would have made sure we had room . . .” but it doesn’t help.

The meaning of some parts of this dream are obvious to me. All summer I’ve been surrounded by people, and as an introvert, I haven’t had the solitude I need to recharge. By the way, if I hear one more person explain that an introvert is someone who doesn’t like people, I will scream or slap them (yes, I realize this will prove their point). But seriously, introverts really do like people. I would argue that we actually like people more than many extroverts do because we tend to value deep, personal conversations and hate superficial small talk, which is often the only kind of conversation possible in groups. Where introverts shine is in one-on-one conversations in quiet spaces where they can really get to know the other person.

But I digress. In addition to feeling overwhelmed by too many people this summer, I’m also haunted by my husband’s fantasy of filling our new, bigger house with refugees (he’s only partly joking). I’m sure I also have some lingering guilt about not thinking about my brother often enough or feeling sad enough according to the Rules of Grieving.

The only part of the dream I haven’t been able to interpret is this. My brother wasn’t alone. With him was a young black woman wearing some sort of tribal costume. I tried to speak to her but she didn’t know any English. At first I assumed she and my brother were a couple, but there was no basis for this belief judging from the way they acted. I don’t want to resort to the cliche of the racialized, exoticized Wise Woman, but who was she supposed to be, symbolically? I don’t know. Any ideas?

05/30/16

Control, Perfectionism, and Being a Vulture

I freely admit to being a control freak. I’m not proud of this, and it certainly makes life difficult in some ways, but there are good sides to it, too. For example, I’m normally very productive and organized. I’m always on time and I always meet my deadlines.

But lately the universe has been telling me I need to let go of the illusion of control over things in my life. Because, really, what can we control? Therapists counseling people in relationship difficulties will tell them the only thing they can control is their reaction to other people. Yet even our own reactions are difficult to control when we’ve spent years forming habits of interacting with others in certain ways.

The first step in AA is well known: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.” Other 12-step programs modify this step to fit whatever the addiction or problem is, but the basic truth is this: “we are powerless.” While this statement may not be helpful to some people, it’s useful for me to remember when I’m on a control rampage.

Empty book mockup templateI’ve been reading a great book by Lauren Sapala called The INFJ Writer: Cracking the Creative Genius of the World’s Rarest Type. Being an INFJ (based on the Myers-Briggs personality typology) as well as a writer, I was naturally intrigued. I thought I knew myself really well, but Sapala helped me understand myself better. The passage that seems particularly relevant to my life lately is this one:

The best piece of advice for any INFJ who is in the grip of perfectionism is to Stop Thinking About It. Whatever “It” is for you. The book you want to write. The guy or girl you want to be your soulmate. Your dream house. The thinking only takes you so far, and honestly, it is our tertiary function. We like to flatter ourselves that we can hang with the Thinkers any time we want, but the truth is that it’s not our superpower. We get into damaging loops where we circle the topic like a vulture, our Introverted Intuition ready to pick the bones clean for any new information that we can join up with existing knowledge to complete the pattern. But sometimes, there’s just no new information to be had. The piece you’re looking for that will make everything fit—how to write the perfect book, how to be absolutely sure this is your soulmate—doesn’t exist. You’ve got to wing it. In fact, it seems the Universe is demanding that you wing it.

Now, winging it is not what control freaks do. But I know exactly what Sapala means when she talks about damaging loops. I am that vulture! My husband and I are currently house hunting, and I’ve been picking the bones clean, so to speak, from every real estate listing within a 40-km radius of my city in search of that dream house. It’s exhausting.

Being an academic doesn’t help. Not every academic is a control freak, but many of us are, and being a professor and researcher does nothing to teach me how to wing it. I work alone most of the time and don’t have to answer to anyone. Even when I’m working with students, I’m the boss, and unless there’s a serious problem that requires the intervention of my department head, I can organize my courses and set the rules the way I want to.

Isolated vulture, buzzard looking at youI’m taking Sapala’s advice as best I can, especially to Stop Thinking About the dream house. Interestingly, I’m seeing parallels between my difficulty relinquishing control to my agents, both my real estate agent and my literary agent. Having an agent of any kind involves letting that person have some control of the process. I’m so used to doing everything for myself and knowing all the details that it’s hard to trust someone else to research the details for a contract/deal that’s so important to me. The other day, as I swooped down to (virtually) feast on the latest house-for-sale carcass, my husband said,  “Just let [our agent] do his job.” He’s said the same thing in relation to my literary agent! (And if either agent is reading this, I apologize if I’m being annoying!)  Fortunately, I do back off and stop being a pest as soon as I realize I’m in the damaging loop.

My latest lesson in winging it came from the protagonist of my newest novel. I’ve been struggling with her for months now and feeling blocked because she’s less like me than any other character I’ve written (she’s an ESFP, in Myers-Briggs terms). She knows how to wing it. She’s not a control freak. But I’ve been frustrated with her the way I would be with a recalcitrant child. “Why won’t you talk to me?” I complain. “How can I possibly write your story if I don’t understand you?” And then a couple of days ago, she sashayed into my head, sat down and told me who she is and how she wants her story approached. It was like a gift from heaven, but I couldn’t help but wonder why it took her so long. I just had to wait until she was ready to tell me. I can’t even control my characters, so why do I think I can control anything or anyone else?

Lesson learned, hopefully. This vulture is going to try to wing it!

03/23/16

The Difference a Decade Makes

Not long ago I faced an unusual task: shifting my novel’s time period from 1897 to 1907. I won’t go into all the reasons for doing this, but it became clear that I needed to do it. Normally I wouldn’t be too concerned about a mere ten-year difference, historically speaking. If I had shifted the time period from 1887 to 1897, it would hardly have merited even a mention, much less a blog post. But moving from the nineteenth to the twentieth century seemed like a big deal.

My specialty is 19th-century England. It’s what I’ve studied as an academic and a historical novelist. I know it well, especially the Victorian period. And as long as details in a novel are recognizably Victorian, I suspect most readers wouldn’t notice the differences from one decade to the next, aside from the dramatic changes in women’s clothing. But the 20th century seems different. To many ears, 1907 sounds modern, whereas 1897 sounds almost ancient.

I plunged into an intense round of research on the Edwardian era (technically 1901-1910 but often extended a few years to the beginning of WWI). I do love research, and I followed some very interesting rabbit trails.The only major changes from the late-Victorian to the Edwardian period involved technology and transportation. In Britain, the telephone was well-established in workplaces and in wealthy people’s homes by the first decade of the 20th century. Motor cars were increasingly common, though even secondhand cars were still too expensive for the average middle-class family. At no other period in history was there more variety in modes of transportation: horse-drawn omnibuses, hansom cabs and other carriages competed for space on city streets with motor taxis, cars and motor buses.

To give you a visual sense of the situation, here’s a photo of a London street in 1910:

I also learned that Britain and North America were very different in terms of when they adopted these technologies: North Americans used both cars and telephones much earlier than the British did, likely because of greater distances to travel and more limited railway systems.

Even though my research was extensive, the actual changes I needed to make to my novel were few. Here’s an easy one:
motor-car-revision
All of this got me thinking about the trickiness of historical accuracy in a novel. It’s not enough to find out when a new technology was invented. Most technologies were slow to be adopted by the general public because of the expense or the resistance to trying new things. And a novelist must think of her characters too: are they the type of people who would be excited about or suspicious of the latest technology? Would they use it immediately or be slow to adopt it?

Personally, I’m old-fashioned when it comes to technology. I’ll never forget the day I finally broke down and bought a cell phone (I refuse to admit how recent that was!). It was long after most of my students had cell phones, and I remember telling a class how excited I was the first time I walked down the street while talking on the phone. As you might imagine, I was met with many shocked stares and some snickers!

Ultimately, what I learned from shifting my novel’s date forward a decade was that dates don’t matter. Events matter. Big, important national (or global) events. I had the feeling this might be the case. When I teach Victorian Literature, I give students the dates of Victoria’s reign, but I also mention events such as the 1832 Reform Bill and the 1859 publication of Darwin’s Origin of Species, which were more important influences on society.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, World War I changed everything. 1900-1914 wasn’t very different from the late-Victorian period, but after WWI, there was a definite shift in everything from technology to people’s mindsets. To offer just one statistic, in 1905 there were 32,000 motor vehicles in Britain, but by 1920 there were 363,000!

I also thought about historical differences between decades I’ve lived through, such as 1997 vs. 2007. When I look back, the differences primarily involve technology. In 1997, few people I knew had cell phones. In 2007, everyone had them. And I can usually tell from its shape whether a car was made in the 90’s or a decade later. Even moving into a new millennium wasn’t a big deal. On Dec 31, 1999, I was staying with a friend. We were concerned about being prepared for problems, though not to the extent of some others who seemed to be expecting Armageddon. We decided to fill up two glasses of water to brush our teeth with in the morning in case there was no water (Yes, we were a couple of wild and crazy girls!). We were a little worried that our computers wouldn’t work the next day, but we decided just to wait and see. And indeed, nothing changed. We had water. Our computers worked.

But consider September 11, 2001. That event changed everything, and not just for Americans. When I think of the history I have lived through, it will be marked by events like that.

What events were so important in history that you remember exactly where you were at the time? 9/11? The death of Princess Diana? The Vietnam war? The death of JFK or Martin Luther King? These are the events that shape history, not the beginning or end of a reign, a government, or a century.