Miss Writerly Crankypants

Don't Mess With Me--I Have a Black Belt

2012-02-21T10:12:00.006-08:00

So I'm researching for a romantic comedy I'm writing, and need to know some real self-defense techniques for my made-up hero and heroine. Even though my heroine has seven (count 'em) Chihuahuas to defend her honor, she has to interact with the Hunk as often as possible. Thus, she enrolls in self-defense class.

I pull up a video where a foxy, petite woman is demonstrating the proper technique to escape should someone decide to walk up and begin choking you. Happens every day, I'm sure. The first thing the Petite Fox instructs me to do is to bend my knees. She says it's so one can create a good center of gravity, but in my mind the Hunk thinks she's having abdominal pains. "Are you OK?" He whispers. Her knees are killing her by now so she hisses, "Just get on with it."

Then the video Fox instructs, "Put your chin down, so you can breathe a little." I'm thinking, the guy is choking me for crying out loud. How can I breathe? Besides, when I put down my head like that, all my double chins are highlighted in a terrible way.

"Now," the Fox says, "Twist sharply to your left. This will alter his grip." If I'm being choked by a man, at this point I am one hundred percent sure I no longer remember right from left. And is it the video chick's left or my left? But I will allow my heroine to twist. She would shout but she's being choked at the present time.

Here's where it gets interesting. Fox demonstrates while she talks. "Put your right hand in the air (here we go again) and pull it down like you'd pull down on a subway strap. Really? We have no subways in Oregon. Maybe I can pretend it's like trying to pull seven Chihuahuas off the top of my refrigerator. Up to now, this video has given my poor character rope burns on her throat as her attacker (aka the Hunk) watches her do a Chubby Checker imitation. But she wins, because the next move is awesome: Ball up your fist and give him a side hammer strike in the temple. She doesn't care which temple, either. Now that's romance.

Feedback Nightmares: When You Want to Quote Shakespeare

2012-02-16T10:27:00.000-08:00

Critique groups, they say, are an essential part of a writer's apprenticeship. We all desire to have a "good eye." Yet if you write all alone in a garret, chain-smoking and chugging coffee, you might never meet the friends who at times are you worst enemy. Some of the critique groups from hell I've been a part of have driven me into therapy or at least into the fetal position. Seems to me there are a few "types" we "typers" ought to avoid.

The Hatchet Lady. I actually belonged to a group where the members bestowed yours truly with this title. I thought I was doing these writers a favor by pointing out structural issues that required a lot of rearranging. I learned this technique from a writer who used it on me weekly, until I couldn't stand up. So I thought it fair that I pass on these pearls of wisdom. Instead, they accused me of being an ax murderer. But we all know at least one of these writers, who specialize in ripping your work to shreds. In that group I was about as popular as the plague.
The Nay-sayer. This type of critiquer hates everything you (or rather I) write. She has a prepared speech to rub in the error of our ways, one that ignores writing and instead goes to that person's favored social or political bent. This person also often says, "Well! I don't think your character would do that!" Or, as happened to me once, calls you a week later to offer suggestions. "You know that rabbit in your chapter last week?" She croons. "I was thinking you ought to make it a nutria instead." Worse still, I once brought in a religious piece I was working on to a "secular" group and one member exclaimed, "I can't critique this. I'm an atheist!"
The NitPicker. We've all had groups where one or more members--despite the repeated reminders not to pick nits--insists on giving everyone a grammar and spelling lesson. Comma splices, run-on sentences or misplaced semi-colons (that's a terrible picture, isn't it?) get center stage as the Nitpicker drones on, correcting (always in red!) our tiniest errors. Once I was so mad at a Nitpicker that the very next week I brought in a paragraph written by a giant of literature, not so much to pass myself off or plagiarize, but to see what she'd do. Sure enough, she sucked the life out of a bit of brilliant prose. I felt guilty, but it confirmed my suspicions: never trust ANYONE with a RED PEN.

Heavy Breathing in Fiction--Not So Easy

2012-02-14T11:24:00.000-08:00

My son hates Feb. 14th because he currently does not have a girlfriend. As in, HE'S AVAILABLE, GIRLS!!! In honor of my son's "worst holiday ever," St. Valentine's Day, perhaps a rant about writing romance is in order.

As I'm learning, romance writing isn't the puff pastry it's made out to be. Especially in Inspirational Romance, there are only so many ways a writer can describe longing looks, gazes, stares or eye locks. That's why anybody who wants to write a good romance had better listen up. Honestly, I don't know why they even publish x-rated erotic romances. The ones with no graphic or phallic detail left out. Everyone who's ever been in love knows it's the stuff we all do before and after that counts.

I can't stop cackling if I read about "pearly nodes," "thrumming thighs" or that a man's eyes "were the color of motor oil after a trip through Oil Can Henry's."

And anything that gets down to say, ahem, the nitty-gritty just gags me and then makes me feel way too guilty. Like I KNOW I'm not supposed to be a peeping Tom (or Tomasina) but I feel as if I've just stood in the corner of some flea-bag motel room and videoed stuff I shouldn't be looking at. And to make it worse, there was some stuff that I didn't know about before and now wish I didn't. Cover my eyes and hush my mouth.

As a writer who's always made fun of writers who crank out Harlequin novels, I stand here ashamed and corrected. It is so difficult to write a terrific scene with sexual tension but no details. And equally difficult (notice I'm avoiding a certain synonym beginning with "h?") is writing the afterglow, which is the part a lot of women wish they had a lot more of. See, women want the love as much as the heavy breathing. Women crave the promise he'll get up with the vomiting baby, or have the aplomb to leave the toilet seat down most days. Skills like this take a lot more effort, I tell my lonesome son. If you don't believe me, go hang around at Oil Can Henry's for awhile. There's sure to be a fine single woman there whose ex made her go get her own car's oil changed. She probably hates Valentine's Day too.

Alone in the Slang Graveyard with Drunken Elephants

2012-02-09T10:43:00.000-08:00

EEW. Seriously? That's so gross. A recent Geico commercial has some popular middle school girls following a dieting man everywhere. Each time he tries to eat something, the trio says the same thing, one by one. "EEW. Seriously? That's so gross." The ad made Miss Crankypants think about the use of slang in writing dialogue. And how many of us end up looking like drunken elephants on a high wire when we try.

When trying to evoke contemporary speech, we writers walk a very thin tightrope indeed. Do we completely omit all slang in our work so as to ensure its relevance to readers in 2212? We don't even know if the world is going to make it that far! On the other hand, do we liberally sprinkle current expressions into the story so the characters will seem believable? If you are writing for middle school girls, popular or not, you are likely to be overly familiar with the words, like, basically, totally and seriously? Not to mention EEW and gross.

For most writers, the problem is how quickly slang changes. If the novel you're working on takes 10 years to write and publish, teens and preteens have already moved on.

Thus, when my groovy husband says, "Yeah, we're just rapping," our kids think he's trying to get someone to open the door. And if I call someone radical or rad, I'm liable to get arrested or pepper sprayed. If you're old enough you know if someone is "the bee's knees," "far-out" or my personal favorite, a "hep cat." All these rather neat-o terms now rest in the Slang Graveyard.

The one slang word that seems to endure is "cool." "You guys are like, basically totally cool," I might write. I'm pretty sure the drunken elephants are going to fall off the wire if I write it in the presence of a trio of popular middle school girls. You already know what they'll say. Seriously, that is so gross.

Can You Juggle Butter? Write My Romance

2012-02-07T09:49:00.000-08:00

Some days I'm convinced that writing is like juggling butter. The more I do it, the messier it gets. I think I have a writing skill down, as in can-do-it-in-my-sleep. The next thing I know, those cute little butter balls you get in pancake houses are splatting everywhere, and I'm back to square one.

Take the romantic comedy I'm working on. To me, comedy is Lucy and Ethel stuffing candy into their mouths at the assembly line.A BIG romance publisher is very interested. I set up a great slapstick scene where the guy and the gal end up yelling at each other over nothing. Well, almost nothing. Great romantic tension, right?

Wrong. I'm told my couple needs to have more inner conflict. So I make up some stuff about the girl being orphaned, the guy vowing to never fall in love again after a bad breakup. I'm really really good at writing pathos, wringing every last tear out of the human condition. So I write these inner conflicts. Now the story reads like Les Miz. What a downer! The butter is getting warm in my hands.

I rewrite, trying to keep both inner and outer conflicts in the air. Say what? I need a subplot? Come on, people. But I dutifully add a subplot, trying to convince myself I'm cut out to write books that have a two week shelf-life.

Now they say my opening drags. Well, I retort, you made me add all that inner conflict-subplot stuff. No wonder the opening feels more like a James Michener first chapter. No, I didn't think the history of North America would slow down the story so much. The butter has melted, along with the BIG publisher's interest and my patience.

See what we're up against? Compared to writing a romantic comedy, juggling butter sounds downright easy. Maybe I'll rewrite my comedy to be a tragedy. But first I'm making popcorn. Gotta do something with all this melted butter.

Moe and Booger Write a Novel

2012-02-02T10:07:00.000-08:00

As a long-time local writer teacher, I really shouldn't poke fun at my students. But the time two country good ol' boys took a class from me begs for mockery. And Moe and Booger aren't even their real names. I think.

Moe came in and took a seat, his red plaid flannel shirt as faded as the flag you attach to a long load that sticks out of your truck bed. I swear he had a chaw of tobacky in his cheek. Booger slipped in beside his buddy, cousin, brother, whatever, and I didn't have to wonder how he got such a nickname. This guy was greasy--from his hair (what was left of it) to his grease-stained overalls. I proceeded to ask the students to describe the novel they were working on.

When it was Moe's turn, he looked at me with one eye and tapped the side of his head. "I got it all up here," he said.

I politely asked if he'd thought about writing anything down. "After all, I said, "we're here to write a novel, not just think about it."

Moe was not amused. "If I write it down, some punk is gonna steal it."

I thought, oh no here we go again. I smiled. "Why don't you just tell us a bit about the story?"

Moe launched into a convoluted tale about aliens, a spaceship and the fate of Sleepy Hollow or somesuch out-of-the-way place in Oregon. He talked with his hands, and as the rest of us watched in horror, Booger began supplying spaceship sound effects, different character voices and five different gun noises. When Moe finished telling us that the humans won, sending the aliens zooming off with their literal tails between their seven legs, he crossed his arms and sat back, as if to say, "Top that."

"Sounds like a rollicking tale," I said. This is what I always say if a student's story is too pathetic for words. I turned to Booger. "So. Tell us about your novel."

Booger looked surprised. "I ain't writing no novel," he explained. "I just like doing sound effects." He blinked and folded his arms too.

"O-kay," I said and looked at my watch. "We're out of time, see you all next week," I chirped, secretly hoping the aliens would take revenge and kidnap Moe and Booger before next week's class. If not, maybe I'd write my own novel called Moe & Booger Go to Mars. Don't worry about reading it though--I got it all right up here.

Stop, Thief! Them's My Words!

2012-01-31T10:52:00.000-08:00

You'd think a new writer would be worried about learning her craft. But no. The first thing this precious writer wants to know is, "What if somebody tries to steal my stuff?" She wants to know how to get a copyright, how to exercise her rights to prevent theft of her valuable intellectual property. Talk about three impossible things before breakfast! I try to be gentle. "The odds of anyone stealing your writing are higher than your being struck by lightning standing on your head at the golf course. Really."

New Writer's eyes bulge out. "But won't some slimeball steal my ideas?"

I don't have the heart to say her ideas are probably about as useful as a bicycle with no wheels, as original as sin, as creative as a bad velvet Elvis painting. So I launch into my standard copyright explanation.

"Your material is copyrighted the moment you write it," I say. But student writers never believe me. To many, that copyright symbol must only be available to those who can fill out a form and send in the fee. Copyright laws aren't like the DMV, people. "It's true," I repeat. "Most writers are more concerned with others stealing their stuff than actually plagiarizing other writers. If you still feel vulnerable, you can put your own little "c" in the circle symbol on everything you write."

Now I've done it.

New Writer retorts that the "c" symbol must be government-issued, backed up by some federal law. It's probably policed by the same agency that monitors mattress DO NOT REMOVE UNDER PENALTY OF LAW tags. She figures if any hack tries to make off with her words, she'll just report him to the proper authorities. Sorry, but except for big names like J.K Rowling or Stephen King, there aren't any. So what's a new writer to do?

I can't force myself to tell her to get over herself, that her brilliant idea for the bestselling book of all time was probably published last year. That if she tries to get in on the vampire trend, she's probably too late. That she'd be better off apprenticing herself to learning the writing craft.

Besides, she's probably going to attach this note to the copyright symbol: DO NOT REMOVE UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.

Daughters Who Manage My Underwear

2012-01-26T09:30:00.001-08:00

I have a beautiful young adult daughter who loves to help me get ready for classes I teach, book-related appearances and conferences. I so wish she'd been helping me that first disastrous book event. But sometimes her "new generation" sensibilities make my teeth ache.

I know I'm not alone here. Other writers and editors have told their horror stories of what happens when your daughter manages your public persona:

GET TANKED. First, she tells you that you MUST wear one of those tight tank tops (aka camis) under your top. It has to be long enough to show below the hem of your shirt or sweater. Now I'm no prude, but those things are hot. And TIGHT. I feel like the boa constrictor that ate the alligator, sort of overstuffed. Maybe that's where they got the term "muffin-top." Now I know I have one.
NO HOSE. Next, your beautiful adult daughter (or niece or granddaughter) says you are NEVER to wear pantyhose again. EVER. Unless you're wearing opaque tights, which are an entirely different thing. I don't know about you, but my legs are not only blindingly white, they, uh, jiggle when I walk. Just a smidge. On the other hand, not wearing L'Eggs would have prevented me from saying, over national Christian radio, "You know, like when the crotch on your pantyhose slips down." I'm still getting over that one.
YOU OLD BAG. Dear sweet female who's so much younger than you are says you really ought to carry a purse that's as big as a Volkswagen. "It's in style," she croons. I always thought the size of one's handbag was directly proportional to one's age, as in the older you get the bigger the purse. At least I'll have a decent weapon when someone makes a joke about my legs.
WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY UNDERWEAR? Last, this precious girl who's preparing my body as a living sacrifice, says the ultimate: "Mom, you really should get some cuter undies." Say what? I hotly reply that I've only used one safety pin on this pair of white cotton hi-cuts and besides, who's going to see my underwear? My daughter, shakes her head, as if I'm hopeless. Which of course, I am.

Writing Event Disasters: Are You Cool?

2012-01-24T10:22:00.000-08:00

Like most writers, I dreamed about my first book's publication for years. I also daydreamed about my media appearances--including Oprah, of course. This is one of those things that are great fodder for wool-gathering, but that hardly ever turn out as cool as you imagined.

The first event I had was a bookstore signing, where at least three people showed up. A little local Christian book store (and coffee bar!) agreed to host me only after I bugged the owners for weeks. One of my friends even printed coupons for free coffee at the coffee bar. I should've stayed in bed that day.

I got up that morning, knowing I had to look my best. The makeup gremlins had conspired against me, though. During the night, they got together and plucked out all the eyelashes on one of my eyes. I was clever and had bought a package of glue-on false eyelashes, so I was feeling invincible. I'm also very farsighted and can barely see my eye much less the lashes. But I bravely glued on a strip of fakies (falsies just sounds wrong) and went on to the next item. I have really dry skin too, and lipstick fades quickly on my in-need-of-moisture lips. I'd bought some of that paint-on lip stuff, and so I drew on lips and then walked around waving my hands to dry aforesaid lips. Problem solved. When I blopped yellow concealer on my new gray suit jacket, I just wore a nice pin on the spot. I was set.

At the bookstore, all three of my admirers instantly gave me puzzled looks. I was sure they were dazzled by the appearance of an author. I sat at this cheesy card table and smiled for the next 3 hours. The admirers felt sorry for me and each bought a book.

Just before time was up, one sweet friend whispered, "My husband wants to know why you're wearing a brooch right there." "Right there" was of course, on the leading edge of one side of my bosom, if you get my drift. I didn't know what to say, so I smiled. That's when the friend leaned in and added, "Oh and you've got lipstick on your teeth and a bunch of black hairs hanging off your nose." I reached up and pulled my fake eyelashes from the nostril where they waved, vowing to get those gremlins at my next book event. I am so cool.

Leave Him Where the Lord Flang Him

2012-01-21T13:59:00.000-08:00

One of the oldest and most immutable writing laws states, "Thou shalt not use dialect. Ever." The amendment adds, "Except if thy name be Mark Twain, Frank McCourt or George Lucas." The key to dialect is to avoid it unless you are good at writing it. And how does one know if a writer one is not so good and therefore commanded against writing dialect ?

Are ya gettin' this? Bad dialect writers regularly use more commas and drop more gs than the catcher comin' thro' th' rye.
Whadja Say? Bad dialect writers love to create new spellings for ordinary words, so that readers will never guess what the characters are actually saying. This often results in the necessity of emergency surgery to uncross readers' eyes.
There is No Try. Bad dialect writers love to write "Yoda-speak." Doubt not my words, mangle syntax they must.
Stupidus Maximus. Bad dialect writers love to throw in words from dead languages like Latin, just to see if readers are paying attention. They aren't but that's because the readers have died too.
'Tis My Destiny. Bad dialect writers constantly defend their bad dialect, saying dialect is crucial to their story. They compare themselves with Mark Twain, Frank McCourt or George Lucas, as if this gives these writers the right to offend everyone equally, when in reality, these writers are destined for the rejection pile.

Are You Jealous of Me? Well You Should Be

2012-01-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

A lot of the writing life revolves around good old-fashioned green-eyed jealousy. We look at our own measly writing success or lack of it, and instantly we just have to peek over the fence at what our neighbor is doing. He's on the bestseller list? We think, "I deserve to be there, not him." She landed a twelve-book contract and a huge advance? "Doesn't she know my last book came out five years ago and my rent is due?" In elementary school, any kid caught coveting their neighbor's answers on the quiz got a big fat zero. Why are we writers such a jealous lot?

The obvious answer is that we are all insanely insecure. Case in point:

I managed to get a table at a recent book faire. All day long I compared myself with the other 59 authors in the room. Every time the local former slug queen (where I live we have such a thing) sold a joke book, I wanted to get up and strangle her. She's a nice enough slug queen, but I hated her for selling her dumb joke books. Why, those rags aren't nearly good enough to be classified as great! Couldn't the customers see that I was the purveyor of LITERATURE? How does that compare with cheap shots at the menopausal woman?

Then there was my table mate who is the sister of our local newspaper columnist. We traded niceties, but I swear she was giving me those sideways slit-eyed glances all day. And every time she sold a book to the passer-by instead of me, I returned her glares with gusto. We politely slew each other with our smirks and sneers. I stuck out my tongue at the back of her head.

By the time evening rolled around, I'd shot enough green arrows to kill off most of the local writing scene. Most of the 59 authors staggered around, my well-placed barbs of envy sucking out their will to live. Funny though, most of them didn't know I'd delivered the killing blow. So I decided to bring out the ultimate weapon: Like my good friend and great writer Heather says, I wished every single one of those writers woke up the next day with a GIANT ZIT. Take that, you inferior peons. I must be the only living writer who is both great and who also happens to have a zit. Oops.

Mary and the Magnifi-Cot

2012-01-16T11:47:00.000-08:00

I truly think our new Assistant Priest for St. Mary's Episcopal, Rev. Betsy Tesi, is on to something. She offers this slightly altered version of the days before there was no room in the inn.
"And the Virgin Mary, having of herself a bad back, did convince Joseph to make a trip to the local Bethlehem REI. And she did buy a camp bed, and her back pains were greatly eased. And she sang the great hymn, the Magnifi-Cot."
The Rev. Susan Church adds, "And what a Magnifi-cot it was."

Now that's rewriting history.

Ageism in Writing: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

2012-01-15T13:19:00.000-08:00

Miss Crankypants has noted yet another glaring inequality in the writing world: old writers are discriminated against. The problem seems a lot like the old adage: to get a job you need experience, and to get experience you need a job. By the time most writers have mastered writing skills and have gained the wisdom to have something to say, let's just say that gravity and too many cheeseburgers have taken their toll. Older writers are overlooked in favor of young fresh faces who are barely old enough to remember cursive writing. I myself wish to be known as a hardbodied, young genius author.

I know several writers (all older than I am, I swear it) who are reluctant to mention the year they graduated from high school, lest any reader do the math. These fine writers have to either have their author pic Photoshopped or else pull out that senior high picture from the 1940s, which if you think about it, has a totally different meaning now.

So what can be done about this blatant discrimination?

The first thing that pops into my wise old head is revolution, of course. We whiteheads and greybeards should all march on Washington (or New York or Nashville, where most of the books come from). We'll gather on the hottest day of the year, just so the news crews will be forced to watch our upper arms waggle, our tummies jiggle and our wattles wiggle. We'll all wear visors, of course.

And tell all the grandma writers (like me!) not to pluck those chin hairs, just to watch 'em squirm. We'll dye our hair blue, leave our partials at home (eeew!) and turn off our hearing aids in case we get interviewed. "Eh?" we'll say. "What was that, sonny?"

Who's with me, geezers? Are you ready to take on the writing world and claim your spot in the publishing sun? C'mon, before they inform us that the revolution will not be televised. In that case, this hardbodied genius author will see you at Bingo.

Closet Christian Writer

2012-01-11T09:46:00.000-08:00

Last year I was asked to be a writing coach for a conference I've attended for decades. I did so with gusto, and reveled in the conferees' kudos and praises. I supposedly changed one woman's life. How cool is that?

This year, though, things aren't looking so hot. The teaching roster has already been announced for this coming summer and--gasp!--I am not on the faculty. I'm sulking about being overlooked, wondering why, if all those writers were so enthusiastic about my teaching, I am not being asked to repeat.

The organization that puts on the conference is finding it more and more difficult to break even. The powers-that-be must have big names in order to draw sufficient interest. So, I tell myself, it's not really about me. Is it?

Maybe it's because I have so cleverly hidden my true writing identity from the world. In fact, I am so awful, that when I get on an airplane, I've been known to tell my seatmate that sure I write. When asked "what kind of books," I choke every time. "Inspirational," is my lame response.

I'm supposed to be part of the solution to avarice, sloth, gluttony and, well you get the idea. Like a lot of others, I write some pretty lofty stuff at times, all the while being eaten from the inside by my own shortcomings. I can't even admit I write for Christians.
Someone must have ratted me out. After years of soothing writers' egos with platitudes, here I am pouting like a two year-old. A two year-old Closet Christian Writer.
Writers have such a crazy life, that being a Closet Christian Writer is really difficult to keep up. Is there a support group for that? CCWA--Closet Christian Writers Anonymous. Someplace where I can proudly say, "Hi, my name is Linda and I write for the Christian market"--whether they ask me back to their stupid conference or not.

Have you ever kept your writing identity a secret? Do tell.

Miss Crankypants Takes Her Show On the Road!

2012-01-10T10:57:00.001-08:00

Today I'm honored to be a guest at award-winning author and all-round nice person Kay Marshall Strom's blog. If you like me even a little bit, please visit Kay's Words and leave a nice comment. If you don't like me even a little bit, please keep your comments to yourself. Back tomorrow!

What Ever Happened to Answering the Phone?

2012-01-09T11:09:00.000-08:00

My adult son rarely answers his phone. He'll text you, sure, or send email now and then. But when a real live conversation might take minutes, our tag texts go on for hours at times. Why don't people answer their phones anymore?
On some level, I like texting better than phones. In public for instance, I'm much happier watching someone, whose thumbs are a blur, walk into a lamppost than I ever was listening to a woman screaming into her cell. Now I don't have to know that "canned beets are on sale on aisle five, should I bring home an extra case?" or, "OMG!!! she said and then he said," ad nauseam. So I'm fine with texts when I'm out and about.
It's my own adult children whose texts fry my spam. It's been so long since some of them have actually picked up my call that I don't remember what their voices sound like. I'm issuing a Mom-enforced edict: I am YOUR MOTHER. You will not ignore my calls. You will answer by the third ring and you will NOT put your phone on automatic voicemail.
But I still get these lame-o texts. When I try to text back--oh that's when the real fun begins.
These tiny key pads and I are not friends. I've heard new smarty-pants phones have a magic function that completes words for you, but I can't find it on my excruciatingly outdated model. If I did manage to use it, it would probably send my kids a text that tells them I'm being held hostage by Lady GaGa who is demanding more meat for her dress. As it is, I ask my son if he's coming for dinner and it looks like this: r u g8y6m9!@#? So far, he hasn't texted back. That kid is SO busted.

Why Writers Need Perfect Teeth

2012-01-06T10:30:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, most writers' dentition reflected years of coffee and tea drinking and the occasional front tooth gap or overlap. Unless you were a kid, a light shade of dull yellow was normal. Actors had to shell out thousands for veneers, but the rest of the arts demanded only that you were good at what you did. Not anymore.

Nowadays, it's not enough to be a really terrific writer, or to write page turners, or even to blow up the bestseller lists. Nope. As the commercial says, that's so 47 seconds ago. These days, writers had better have great teeth too.

Even the shyest writers have had to come out of their garrets and hidey holes to market their work. A lot of them are like moles, squinting in the light as they emerge from underground. They'd rather be in their burrows, writing. You can get shy writers to do stuff on the Internet, but that's mainly so they can keep using their author photo from 1970. Anything beyond that, and an author's bad teeth will surely become the topic of conversation.

In addition to all that Internet promotion, we're also expected to go out and talk to groups of people, reading groups and fans, should we get any fans. And if a writer's hygienist happens also to be a reader, well that's just a disaster waiting to happen. One glance and any hygienist worth her scaling pick will know you've been lying about flossing all these years.

So what's the solution? Writers can't hide--even if your core audience lives in Antarctica, there's Skype. Pasting those strips over your pathetic yellowed grill for weeks on end might get you a shade or two lighter, but for outright bling, you're going to need those trays that cost a bundle. Leave the gunk on, until either your teeth turn blue-white or else the FAA arrests you for blinding airline pilots with your dazzling choppers. If you're late to the reading group at least you'll have a nice pearly smile.

Enter the Dragon

2012-01-04T13:11:00.000-08:00

Moms everywhere know that we usually dodge
contagions that hit the household—just long enough to nurse, wait on and
comfort everyone else back to health. Then, wham. The rest of the family
resumes their normal activities while Mom makes her own chicken soup. That’s
when my family treats me like I’m an alien, and all because I sound funny and look
ridiculous. Makes me crave revenge, Dragon-style.
For two weeks, I’ve been bragging about how this
particular cold virus somehow missed me. See what happens when you boast?
Suddenly, my nose is redder than Rudolph’s, and a giant box of cheap one-ply tissues
is following me around the house. Why oh why did I not splurge for the expensive
tissue? I can’t take any of those remedies like Nyquil, either. The next step
is to get some Vick’s Vapo-Rub and haul out the vaporizer. I’m sick and
definitely not happy.
I’ve been taking care of myself most of my life. I
was a sickly child and my mother worked outside the home, so I had no choice.
Other kids had pets like puppies and kitties and those little turtles that
always manage to escape and then die under the refrigerator. My pet? I had a
vaporizer I named The Dragon.
For what felt like years, Dragon sat in the corner
of my bedroom, hissing out its steam. In those days the steam was hot, too. I
had to be careful not to get too close or Dragon might erupt. Every winter,
when I stayed home from school with colds for weeks at a time, The Dragon tried
to help me quit being a mouth breather. To make my colds disappear faster, I’d
cram a wad of tissues up one nostril to force the other plugged one to
function. It didn’t always work, and then I’d gasp for breath. Dragon was so
reliable that it rained everyday in my room.
Now we have cold air humidifiers instead of those
hot, steam-belching vaporizers of old. I don’t know if my sickie bug will heal
any faster with cold steam, but just in case I saved The Dragon. Besides, the
smell of Vick’s will keep the rest of the family as far away as possible, until
somebody needs something.
After I make the chicken soup my family will probably
want to know why there’s no clean underwear. They’ll bang on the bedroom door
and repeat the word, “Mom” approximately 97 times. Then I’ll fire up The Dragon and walk out
with a wad of tissues shoved into my nostril. That’s the kind of revenge I’m
talking about.

Life is What Happens

2011-12-30T12:03:00.001-08:00

. . . While you're making other plans, right? I was all set to rant about the way we writers are pressed to have perfect teeth, when my loving husband of thirty-four years got into a fender-bender on his way to work this morning. He was rear-ended and then his poor old 1981 truck (aka Truckie-poo) crashed into the car in front of him. So I suppose the condition of my teeth is small potatoes compared with having a wreck on the wettest day of the year.
My sweetie had to stand in the pouring rain and direct traffic for 30 minutes. We're not sure if the truck is salvageable but we're sure Truckie-poo's front-end is smashed. Husband isn't sure whether he has a whiplash, but he's positive his shoes are soaked. What kind of writer-related griping can I do in the face of this kind of a day?
Actually, I can relate. Today is also the last day of Winter Break, and I had big plans for a rockin' fiction writing session. Hubby was going to be at work all day and before noon I'd be in the Zone.
Not.
Instead, I'm helping get husband's shoes dry, cooking lunch and trying to untangle my nerves. Which goes to prove that Life will conspire to suck away your writing time if you aren't vigilant.
Word Count is what happens if you lock yourself in a room and never answer the phone, but I couldn't let the dear man stand out directing traffic in the pouring rain all day, now could I? Not while I still have a tooth left in my head.

Mayan Apocalypse and the Writing Life

2011-12-28T09:21:00.000-08:00

Sliding down to the last few days of 2011, most of us are already busy setting goals and pinning our hopes on 2012. If it weren't for that pesky Mayan Apocalypse prediction, I'd be a whole lot more goal-oriented.
First, I will admit that I watch a lot more pop science TV than I should. H2 and I are buddies. Plus, I watch it while I'm in bed trying to fall asleep, which they say is terrible for your beauty rest. So I wake up in the morning with all these apocalyptic doomsday scenarios running through my head.
If the giant asteroid doesn't do us in, the Mayans will. They seemed to have had a fondness for dark caves and human sacrifice. Which, if you think about it, sounds a lot like the writing life.
Every time I sit before the keyboard, my mind descends into a deep dark place. Shadows (which look a lot like household chores) beckon me. Ah, but I am on a mission, a mission to write my greatest work yet.
All I need to do is lie down on this big slab of rock in the middle of the cave.
Oh wait, that's an altar. And I'm about to have my innards ripped out. The Mayans were right!
I yell for help, but the feathered spectres around me just laugh at my bed hair. And one has a big fat knife.
Oh no--the biggest sacrifice I can make is wrenched from me, held high for all the world to see.
Words. Thousands of them. All rushing upward to change the world.
Just in case the Mayan prediction is true, I had better write as fast and hard as I can. My goal for 2012? I am so done watching H2 TV as a sleep aid.

How to Be a Blogger in the Writing World

2011-12-23T13:20:00.000-08:00

Whenever I teach a writer how to set up and maintain a blog, I almost always get the same deer-in-headlights reaction. "What on earth will I write about?"
This isn't rocket science, people. Besides if you follow Miss Crankypants' rules, you'll do fine.

Rule #1. Be Brief. Limit your posts to 250 words. Interesting how many writers don't know when to shut up. Think of those little daily devotional books, like Upper Room. There's a reason the stories, verse and thought for the day all fit on page the size of my palm. After all, so many people read on their phones while driving to work.
Rule #2. Be Inconsistently Consistent. I wonder how many thousands of blogs are floating around in cyberspace, dying of neglect. Writers with good intentions (I know I really need to blog) start them, write two posts that are horrible and long and then abandon the blog or post something new approximately once a decade. Get a schedule! You can post once a year if you wish, but just do it.
Rule #3. Food for Thought. Whenever you can't think of one single thing to post about, you can always turn to food. Everyone loves food. Write about how a novel is like a seven course meal, or why today's reader has the attention span of meatloaf. And recipes! SO many authors post recipes, as if they're out to prove that if they can't build a readership with their books, well, everybody loves a good recipe for fudge. It is hard to eat fudge while reading on your phone as you drive to work, but if you post about food, you'll never run out of material.

Writing in the Dark

2011-12-21T12:00:00.000-08:00

On December 21st, many writers and bloggers post about this being the shortest day of the year. How nice to be reminded for the forty-sixth time that it's blinkin' dark outside. And in Oregon, it's really really dark. At three PM. Oregon's so close to the arctic circle, that you can't grow watermelon due to the five and a half-day growing season. Here, we all get grumpy and need vitamin D supplements as we sit around our full-spectrum lights and try not to maim each other.

But, there's hope. From here on, the daylight hours (if you call total grey overcast daylight) will lengthen a bit each day.

That makes me happy.

Aren't we writers used to writing in the dark? We grope along, trying to find the right words, aching to know what we really have to say. I think whomever decided we celebrate Christmas in December was onto something. Without a good reason to overspend, overeat, overdrink or over-whatever your tradition holds dear, we might all be sitting in the dark with our fangs bared, ready to poke one another's eyes or otherwise start a war. As it is, we are so lucky. Even if we go whole hog over stuff that doesn't matter, we also (well most of us) get the message of Peace on Earth. For that I'd light a full-spectrum lamp any day.

At Christmas, Time Is Money

2011-12-20T13:59:00.000-08:00

When I was in college, I was either flat broke and had no way to buy gifts, or else I was working some horrible retail job and had no time. Then, during the mommy years, I had no time and no money. I was an art major, so I always came up with clever handmade presents. I now have a hunch that they probably were as welcome as a crocheted toilet paper holder.

But now I'm a writer. What sort of clever handwritten missive is suitable for framing or at least inscribing on some non useful item?

For starters, how about a poem? My own daughter wrote a poem and had it engraved on the top of a simple wood jewelry box. It's not the best poetry, but it was heartfelt and means everything to this old sentimental mom. So go ahead, get really rhymey, really sappy. Your loved one will swoon.

Or, consider a brief paean to a loved one, written in calligraphy on some nice handmade paper. You don't even have to know calligraphy--drug stores carry chisel-tipped markers that do most of the work for you. And if you mess up, ink blots are pretty easy to convert into heart shapes.

OR: An original Christmas story with your loved one written into the plot. Since I am gaga for all things grandchild this year, this is a must. My grandson Bodie will think he invented Christmas before I'm through.

Best. Idea. Yet! Go to a thrift or dollar store and buy the ugliest statue or figurine you can find. Tie a bow around its neck and attach a placard with Best Writer Award 2011 written on it. Give it to your writing partner or members of your crit group. They'll be able to say they're award-winning writers without having to cross their fingers.

When You Are Your Character

2011-12-17T09:00:00.000-08:00

They say as people age, they start to look like their dogs. And it seems as if every term at least a few student novel writers come to class confused about novels and memoirs. As in which one is supposed to be fiction. But they also say you should write what you know. So I'm wondering if a novelist's protagonists ever stop resembling the author?
Even famous authors often write characters who are eerily like themselves. Ann Lamott writes novels about tennis players, and wouldn't you know, she once was a tennis star. Student novels are often about someone whom has just happened to go through the exact same situation as the main character.
One writer I know always writes a heroine who is a genius, drop-dead gorgeous and well-heeled. I keep saying this sort of protagonist has no real conflict, but apparently writer needs to write her fantasies. In one book her character won the Nobel Prize. Another novelist's character just happened to sail around the world alone, just as the author had done. His problem? With no one to talk to, his character has a monologue. I keep suggesting the character get a parrot, a dog or even a soccer ball named Wilson.
I'm not sure why these writers feel compelled to disguise their true stories in a novel. But enough writers engage in this behavior to convince me there has to be a reason.
Perhaps it's because writers feel too self-conscious to write a straightforward memoir. Add to that the sad truth that memoirs are so very hard to sell to a publisher. Maybe it's not that surprising that so many first novels read like a very boring autobiography, where the character is a tennis-playing St. Bernard. Or maybe there are a lot of writers who deserve a Nobel Prize.

Christmas Book Blues

2011-12-14T09:45:00.000-08:00

You would think a writer like moi would run out of things to gripe about. But nooo. Today I dig deep for a situation many of us find ourselves in. What to get our loved ones for Christmas?

Even if you don't celebrate the Big Day, I'll bet you've wracked your brain at one time or another over what gift you think will amaze and delight your loved ones or friends. In my family, wool socks are a perennial favorite.

Those with self-published books will always have the perfect gift, seeing as how the company that printed or digitized their book also strong-armed them into buying a warehouseful of the "units," as they're known in pub-speak. So what if your hairdresser got one last year? It's probably propping up the stylist's chair anyway. Now she'll have one for the magazine rack, too.

And if you hate paying those mailing fees to send Aunt Mary in Boingo Boingo your latest tome, you can get a gift card for Amazon, B & N or other online bookstore. It fits, and it ships.

On the other hand, that relative you cannot stand might be punished more with some horrid self-pubbed novel than another pair of itchy wool socks. Even if, with socks, you can always add in a sprinkle of itching powder (I saw it in a cartoon--is there really such a thing?).

But what about writers (like me) who don't have a new book out this year? I guess I can be really really lame and give Chicken Soup books where I've published a story or two. But somehow it's not really the same. Guess I'll have to stock up on socks and hope the world doesn't end in 2012.

Magic Formulae

2011-12-12T10:47:00.000-08:00

Greetings, earthlings. Miss Crankypants now officially knows why becoming an excellent writer is so not enough in today's market. It's because so many of you aren't self-publishing and making a million bucks off the worst writing possible. Or perhaps I'm a tad bitter.

I sat next to several excellent writers at Saturday's Author Faire--which, I'm told, experienced lake effect snow sometime after lunch. It was that cold. I'm not joking when I say they were handing out polar fleece.

These excellent authors sat excellently, hawking their wares (Historical fiction! Set in Africa! Set in India!) like so many pie-men whom Simple Simon is rumored to have met. In between customers, the story was often the same: Excellent Author had already published xxx number of books, but lately the new manuscripts were having trouble finding a home. The stories were too "quiet."

Excellent Author's agent was acting bored and not returning calls. Excellent wanted to know why. Also, does she REALLY REALLY have to blog? Because Excellent Author hates that platform stuff, you know, the ending Facebook-Twitter--blog tour stuff that eats into actual writing time like so many hungry moths on a camel's hair coat.

Yes, Virginia, you really do have to blog and all the rest.

Alternately, you can sit in your writing studio and wait for your bored agent to return your call. Maybe work on that one novel idea you KNOW will never ever sell, because, heck what else is there to do? You can sign up for next year's Author Faire Freeze-out, where I'll be more than happy to listen to you complain. In the meantime, don't blame me if you can't figure out how to self-publish and make a million bucks.

Book Faire!

2011-12-09T10:57:00.000-08:00

In a short period of unabashed self-promotion, I wanted to let all you faithful readers who live in Lane County Oregon know that tomorrow, Dec 10, 2011, I'll be selling signing and whining (but probably no wining and dining) The Fence My Father Built, which is STILL in the Top 20 Paid Kindle Christian Fiction at Amazon. I'll be hawking print copies but if you are too cool for that, rush over to Amazon and get your copy before I start nagging you. Hope to see you Saturday at the fairgrounds any time from 10-6. Let's hope they don't decide to run the air conditioners full blast this year.

Branding, Schmanding

2011-12-07T09:42:00.000-08:00

Miss Crankypants is officially against author branding. I know, you're supposed to have a catchy slogan, a tag line that separates you from the madding crowd. Bologna! Some of these tag lines make my head want to explode. To wit: A very good friend and super writer recently started a blog. You know, because you're supposed to have a blog even if you loathe blogs. Now said Writer has a blog, a cute little tag line and away we go. When I saw Writer's unique identifying brand, let's just say I wasn't as moved as, say, "Melts in your mouth, not in your hand."
There will never be anything to top, "Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner."
Really, writers, some of these things are plain silly. How many ways can you tell your readers that you write exciting, pageturning, heart-melting Christian Fiction? Or spinetingling, eerie but wholesome murder mysteries? All the good ones are taken.
If you think I'm ranting about this just because I can't think of a decent tag line for my own stuff, well you're right. For years now, I've been wracking my poor brain. So far, the best I can do is "Good Fiction. Take a Chance." Or how about taking a cue from the guys on the corner? "Starving Writer. Anything Helps, God Bless."
One of these days I'm going to hit on the magic formula. My brand will takeover the world, and like lol cats, "I can haz cheezburger." Until then, maybe I'll be like the Jewish mother changing a light bulb. Don't worry about me. I'll just sit here in the dark and hum, "That is what I'd truly love to be."

Too Late for Submissionophobes

2011-12-04T13:49:00.000-08:00

A very good writer met with a very good agent at a summer conference, and agent invited a submission. And not just any old submission--a requested submission. For many of us that's like winning the Golden Ticket.Except when we're too scared to cash it in.

By the time the writer has sent in the requested material, the agent has died of old age or the publishing industry has imploded (again!). What's a writer to do?

Writer's beloved critique group says her manuscript just needs a nip here, a tuck there. All her friends have read her book and are hoping she remembers them when Writer gets that huge advance. Sure they've all been waiting twenty-some-odd years, but who's counting?

Writer promises to send off her submission--hit send and pray--just as soon as she: 1) rewrites her synopsis 2) gets the feedback from one more reader or 3) tears the whole darned book apart and reconstructs for the 37th time. Really, she's this close.

Miss Crankypants knows a bit about Submissionophobia. One of my friends once told me I was like the man who got on his donkey and rode off in all directions. I just couldn't stop fiddling. Go have your novel blessed, have a pro editor read or put all your writer friends' suggestion into a hat and pick one. But trust me, if you don't have the will to send your poor naked starving baby out into the cold, you'll never make it. Get that thing polished to the best you have to offer and HIT SEND.

You're So Funny--Or Not

2011-12-01T09:59:00.000-08:00

Time for a new gripe. I've read some manuscripts recently that tried to throw in jokes and puns. Unfortunately, the jokes were awful and the puns lived up to groaner status. Why is humor so hard to write? In one novel, I could practically see the author laughing at the worst jokes ever, saying, "Self, you're pretty funny, now aren't you?"

This amounts to author intrusion, and intrusion is something we writers should definitely avoid. Like the Plague. But isn't it difficult to know whether you're a born humorist? Most of the bad humor writers I've read seem to have their own groupies who laugh along with them. To all these fans of poor jokers: Stop encouraging these folks! They're funny, but not in a good way.

What can be done? Short of pillorying in the public square, all who think they're funny, witty, entertaining or droll should enroll in clown school. In clown school they teach you genuinely rib-tickling, sidesplitting stuff, such as laughing at oneself, cramming into tiny cars and shaping balloons to look like weiner dogs. Plus, you get to pick an official clown name. Such as Miss Writerly Crankypants. Ha-ha, that's soooo funny. See what I mean?

What Do Editors Really Want? A Ratings System!

2011-11-29T10:33:00.000-08:00

One of my writing students was all excited. She'd self-pubbed her first book and written a memoir, and stood pitching it to an editor at a writing conference. Editor confessed that the student's memoir was a tough sell (in editorspeak, No way, Jose), but what if she designed a women's devotional on the same topic? Now, THAT he'd be interested in seeing. "Write 12 of these devotions and send me the proposal," editor said.

Long story short, she hired me to whip a proposal into shape per Editor's specifications. She and I were both satisfied with the results. She sent her work in and received a quick turnaround email: Sorry, Editor wasn't as enthusiastic as he needed to be about Student's project. Student considered taking up knitting instead of writing.

This scenario happens more often than it should. Even seasoned writers latch on to what they believe is genuine enthusiasm for a project, only to learn that their stuff was never really in the running. Once I sent a novel to an editor I know personally, who requested my work and was excited to read an historical by me. A week later Editor claimed the company was only looking for contemporary novels. Say what?

Maybe we all need a rating system to gauge Editors' reactions, something like the old American Bandstand TV dance show. Songs, not dancers, were evaluated by participants who rated rock and roll classics on stuff like "the beat," "danceability" and other properties. An editor could respond to my proposal or manuscript on a scale from one to ten, ten being "your story is cool and I will try to get it through committee." A five would indicate, "Your stuff is great but to be honest, this is a book I myself plan to write and you haven't got a chance." That I could live with.

Editors can't afford to pass up the one story that is the next bestseller, so they cheat by feigning enthusiasm for stuff they know in advance they can't use. And writers do their best to interpret the smallest positive response as a shoo-in for publication. I wish both would be a bit more realistic, so writers wouldn't get their egos bruised and editors would still find the diamond among all the dirt clods. At least I'd know whether the historical that just got turned down had a good beat you could dance to.

Crankier than Ever

2011-11-28T10:17:00.000-08:00

OK, so we got through Thanksgiving and the birth of my grandchild. Naturally, I woke up today with the mother of all fever blisters and a head cold. My husband reports that I snored "like a buzz saw" all night long. I am not in a good mood.

Some writers say they have to write through anything short of double pneumonia. All well and good--these writers probably have deadlines. The rest of us get to talk our sorry, sniffling selves into sitting at the keyboard, armed with Dayquil and a huge box of tissues, trying to pound out a few words.

Even the cat is avoiding me. I smell like Vick's, look like Rudolph and feel like someone (probably the cat) has been sitting on my head. So how many words will I write? Will I get pulled over for writing-while-cranky?

One good thing about cranky writing, at least when I do it, is that I tap into what I really think and feel. I read about an actor who claims that being angry makes him a better actor. Why wouldn't this work with writing? If you've ticked me off lately you may wish to nail plywood over your windows.

On days like this, I may write the worst, most spiteful and mean, judgmental things ever. I can rag about students who NEVER seem to understand that quotation marks go outside the punctuation or that head hopping POVs make my head hurt. Or worst of all, the ones who can't grasp the idea of double spacing with a readable font. Troglodytes!

And then, with the magic of the backspace, I can make it all disappear. Unless the cat has decided to blackmail me, which is entirely possible. He's sitting on the keyboard, planning revenge for all the upholstered furniture I've shooed him away from, demanding tuna in exchange for my Dayquil, which he's highjacked. Great. Now I'm feeling crankier than ever.

Sneaky Writing Ways for New Parents

2011-11-25T14:19:00.000-08:00

I've got grandbabies on the brain--my first, Bodhi, just got born this morning at 5:43, and boy are we all tired. His mom, sweet Roxy, is completely exhausted, as is the daddy, my oldest son Nathan. While I wait for them to take a well-deserved nap, I'm thinking about how writers with children, grandchildren, steps, fosters or daycare charges can still manage to get writing done.

We all know the trick to "sleep when the baby sleeps," but what if you have kids who've never taken more than a ten-minute nap? Here are some creative ways to make progress on that manuscript:

Stand Up for Yourself! One of my favorite tricks from parenthood: If you look as if you're doing chores, and not something for yourself such as reading or writing, kids seem to accept it. Take this a step further and work on a laptop or read while you stand at the kitchen counter. Tots will think you're peeling a boatload of potatoes, but you're really getting that word count in or reading that new novel you've been dying to finish.
Learn to Nano-write. Not NaNoWroMo, but nano as in word count. We'd all prefer to get in the zone and stay there, but little kids crying on the other side of the door might draw unwanted attention. So learn to sneak in a sentence here, a paragraph there. With i-phones and tablets, it's easier than ever to jot things down. For those who don't yet have these, a pad of sticky notes or a notepad and pencil still work.
Make a Deal. At the credit union where my daughter works, free time is called PTO, or Personal Time Off. This is the one thing new parents are always short on. Instead of dividing chores, negotiate with your partner for hours. So much sacrifice (2AM feeding, emptying the diaper pail, checking for monsters under beds) is worth an hour, an hour in which you're free to lock yourself away (in a closet or bathroom if necessary) and write. Don't worry about getting into the zone and forgetting the kid--the other parent will undoubtedly let you know when time's up. You can't stay locked in that bathroom forever.

Writers Occupy Encampment: WOE is Us!

2011-11-22T11:43:00.000-08:00

Since the Occupy Wall Street movement began, I've been thinking more and more about the 99% of us writers who aren't on a bestseller list or who aren't famous. The 1% gets all the good stuff!

Every time I hear about a new celebrity memoir, tell-all or other star-powered book, I want to scream. Specifically, I want to scream, "You've already had your fifteen minutes (plus) of fame! Step aside and allow some of us poor, ignoble, unknown writers have a go."

Here we are, the 99% of the writing world, languishing at the expense of reality TV stars hogging the slots on the bestseller list. This is so unfair!

OK, maybe a celeb book hires a ghost so there's at least one writer getting paid. But if you've spent the past umpteen years perfecting your craft and then you can't find a publisher because you aren't Snooki or Carrie Fisher or that guy from Kiss, you feel kind of down. As in down at the bottom of the slushpile, moldering away.

I tell people that I'm the most famous writer you've never heard of, hoping they'll think I won a big literary prize for a book nobody's ever read. But the satisfaction doesn't last and besides, I have yet to win a big literary prize.

So what can be done?Hey! I know! I have a tent! We could all camp out!

We should all fly to New York or Nashville or Colorado Springs and start the Writers' Occupy Encampment. We WOEs are so underemployed, thanks to celebrities who hog all the glory, that surely we have nothing better to do than call attention to the poor huddled masses of quality writers who get upstaged by stars. We can stand outside our tents, freezing to death, and chant, "WOE is us."

Writer in Waiting

2011-11-20T17:19:00.000-08:00

Waiting. It’s what writers do. But do we do it well? We’re told to submit our queries and manuscripts. Then, we plan to wait anywhere from six to eight weeks. In our iPad world, this amounts to eons, during which we age prematurely and eat way too much chocolate. But never mind, any writer worth her salt learns the rules. We are pros, and pros can out wait anything the writing world can throw at us. Right?
The first rule of waiting is to practice your Game Face. You can adopt the perfect game face by observing and imitating a cat. Except for big-eyed kittens, any cat will do—it’s the look of boredom perfected over thousands of years of cats not giving a fig about anything. I’m sure cats invented the word “ennui.”And that’s exactly what a writer in waiting must do—act as though the writing, on which you have poured out your blood, sweat and tears, means nothing. Nada. Zippo.
Next, develop Manuscript Amnesia. In secret, you may keep a detailed log of your submissions, but to the outside world, you may have sent something out to such-and-such publication or one of those literary agents, but who’s counting? But be careful: If you forget which agents or editors have already rejected you and resubmit to them, they’ll suddenly remember you in not very nice terms.
Finally, be sure to pack in Extra Provisions. Waiting is not for the faint of heart, and writers have been known to succumb while editors/agents make up their minds. Famous writers have held on with the use of strong coffee, (Voltaire) Diet Dr. Pepper (Me) or something stronger (You know who you are). Unless you stock up on appropriate libations and munchies, your loved ones may find your mummified body at the computer, covered in cobwebs and cookie crumbs, still waiting. Oh, the horror! Learn to wait like a pro.

Follow Your Bliss

2011-11-19T07:15:00.000-08:00

At the class I teach about platform-building for authors, I urge writers to start and maintain blogs. "This is how you build a readership," I say dutifully. I show them how to set up a blog, how to find it again once they've logged out and how to link it to Facebook, yada yada yada. A few weeks later, a student, probably a dear sweet soul who is as likely to publish as one of my cats, raises her hand. "It's been weeks and I only have three followers," she confesses.

About that time, I launch into a tirade about how cheesy this following thing is. It's made me crazy from day one. I feel like a first grader who doesn't have enough points to go on the field trip. Nooo. While all the good writers with lots of followers romp through the book store, I'm sitting in the cafeteria, watching the lunch ladies gossip.

I'm tempted to bribe them if they'll follow me or at least hit "like." And what about the 133 readers who have given up everything to follow me? There were 134, but that was yesterday. Now I am probably scarred for life from worrying about that one lousy follower who crushed all my hopes and dreams. I can't bear to tell the dear sweet soul that even if she manages to amass 134 followers, the editors/agents we're all trying to impress will likely say, "Meh." My advice? I'd love to tell that turncoat #134 (you know who you are) to follow this!

Be sure to write in and Ask Miss Crankypants anything about writing that hasn't been groused about enough. I'll be pouting over in the corner, eating worms.