Just Winging It...

I know it's been a long time since I posted, but I honestly hit a bit of a rut this spring; not only in my writing, but in my life, as well. As much as I try to fight it, I've found that my personal life has an overwhelming influence on my creativity, and when I hit a rut in the way that I have, my writing is going to suffer for it.

A series of events over the past few weeks has brought me out of that rut, but not necessarily in the way that I expected. I'm not saying that it's bad...just different. What's the old saying? God never closes a door without opening a window.

I hope that holds true.

Strider is asleep at my feet, I just had a long conversation with a friend that I haven't talked to in a while, and I'm heading to Baltimore tonight to hang out with some really cool people. As I take a step back from the insanity that can sometimes define my life, I can say that, despite what I often tell myself, things aren't all bad.

I've spent the past year and a half in a state of mind that you could say was less than healthy. It isn't a matter of seeking medication to cure some sort of chemical imbalance (which is also something that I've been through), but rather an acceptance that will hopefully take me back to the old me, as cliche as that sounds.

My focus on the destination of my life has blinded me from what's important. While achieving a goal is something that we all wish for ourselves, we must not forget what it was that made us set that goal in the first place. There was something about it; something that lit a fire inside of us. It made us light up at the thought of it, and made us think that anything was possible, and that if we wanted it bad enough, it would come to us.

And just when we think we have it figured out, here comes this little thing called reality to bring us back down to earth. How will we pay this bill? Why doesn't this person like me? Why won't this damn house just clean itself? Ah...life.

Maybe it's not the end that counts so much as the way we get there; the things we have to go through before we get whatever it is that we're after. Maybe it's not about the destination, but more about the ride to get to it. Maybe it's about the feeling you get when you look back on what you've done, and knowing that through it all, you never gave up.

Now I'm just winging it. I'm going to step away from the person who is consumed with becoming an author, and going back to the one who just opened his journal or fired up his computer because he just had to write. Let each word, each sentence, each page fall where they may. I can only hope that they will find their way to where they are needed.

-GS

A Brief Reminder…

I did some heavy writing today. When I say heavy, I mean HEAVY…as in 65 pages heavy. And here's the best part: I didn't delete it! I actually liked it!

Words cannot describe my excitement about what I did today. Honestly, for the first time since my breakup with my ex-girlfriend am I completely at a loss for literary words. I'm sitting here, typing this blog, and I can't even put to paper how good it made me feel to really bang out a major part of one of my novels.

Today reminded me of why I write. I once said that writing is like breathing; I literally couldn't survive without it. Now that I've written some major pages—and I don't mean just in numbers, but a HUGE part of the story was put together today—I can say that my breathing has gotten substantially less labored. Some of my closest friends see the stress that becoming a writer puts on me, they see when it drives me to drink, and they sometimes question why I do it.

Well, this is why I do it. Taking a blank page and turning it into my own creation gives me a gratifying feeling that can't be rivaled, and days like today make me feel as if I may just get to my goal.

On another note, I recently learned that an acquaintance of mine (since, as she recently pointed out to me, we're not friends), is also writing a novel, and I just want to go ahead and wish her the best of luck. Good luck, Irene!

Enjoy the Superbowl! Go Pack!!

-GS

Nothing Special, But a Realization, Nonetheless

It's funny how little things can change your perspective on happenings in your life. For example, a couple of days ago I posted a rant about a very blunt rejection to one of my query letters. As a side note, I'm still going to send them letters, just to piss them off because, hey, it's what I do. Sometimes I like to stir the pot and see what concoction comes out, and sometimes it ends up being pretty funny.

But, alas, there are times when it doesn't turn out so funny, such as a situation that arose yesterday on Facebook. First of all, here's the problem with Facebook (as well as emails and texts): as a reader, you almost never know if somebody is joking or not, and as the writer, you can never tell how somebody is going to take something that you write.

As I put in an earlier post, I'm not the biggest fan of people who post sappy things on Facebook, and when a friend of mine posts something of that nature, then I consider it to be open season on them. This is when I'm at my best, which I suppose is sad to say, but whatever. My friend Lauren posted something about meeting "him," and looking forward to getting to know "him" one day. Well, never missing an opportunity to be a smart-ass, I made a post about gagging and throwing up in my mouth a little bit. Not to be outdone, Lauren posted that she would hunt me down and punch me in the face (which is a visual that I found hilarious, and would probably let her do it if someone were to get it on film). I'm pretty sure she wasn't joking.

Here's the thing…I'm smart enough to know that if you stir the pot long enough over high heat, it's eventually going to boil over, which is exactly what happened in this instance. Lauren is not, in any way, being over sensitive about this, because, as she did not fail to mention, the only comments I've left for her have been of the smart-ass variety. So I'll take this time to publicly come out and say that I apologize. Lauren is a brilliant person who could put me under the table in a battle of wits, any day of the week. When it comes to writing, I'm sure she would make me look like a third grader, which is why I'm glad she's chosen a career in education rather than writing (further proof that she's clearly smarter than me). I'm sorry, Lauren! Please don't punch me in the face, unless we arrange it before hand, and there's a camera crew present.

This had led me to be a bit less angry about the 12^th rejection of my novel. Here's why: just because I think something is witty and clever doesn't mean that others are going to, as well. All it means is that the literary world isn't ready for it, or at least those that would publish it aren't ready for it. I think there is some part of me that knew that something like this was possible, and that might be part of the reason for my taking on multiple writing projects (that and the undiagnosed adult ADD that I suffer from).

When it comes to my writing, I'm just going to keep my head down and continue plugging away at it. When the world is ready for my work, then it will be dropped upon the unsuspecting public…may God help them.

However, for those of you who continue to post sappy shit on Facebook, you're not safe. Consider this your warning.

Happy Friday!!

-GS

Here Comes Another One

Yes, you probably guessed it, another rejection letter arrived today…ten minutes ago, to be exact. Not only was this a rejection letter, it was an official request not to send them any more material. Before I paste the entirety of this email on this blog, I should probably give you a little bit of background on it…

For those of you who don't know, the process of being published is long and frustrating, not only because finishing a book is a daunting task, but because there are several steps that need to be taken before your book is actually bound and put on the shelves for all to see. Outside of the obvious, which would be actually writing the book, the first step is to get yourself a literary agent to represent you. These are the people that know the book market better than anyone, and they also know which publishers would be interested in your work, but therein also lies the problem. Before you do anything, you have to actually get an agent to be interested in your work. How is that done? Through query letters.

A query letter is a one page document that not only explains the plot of your manuscript (similar to a blurb on the back of a book), but that also sells you, the unfortunate writer. In this one page, your book has to be mind-blowing to a complete stranger, and you have to have the credentials that warrants this person taking a chance on you. The simple fact of the matter is that if your book doesn't sell, the agent doesn't get paid.

This leads us to the next obstacle in our quest for publication, which is that these agents literally see hundreds of these letters a day. So, the question becomes, "What can I do to make my letter stand out from all the rest?"

The answer is…luck. For every hundred query letters an agent gets, they probably throw half of them out without even looking at them. I don't care how many of them claim to read every letter, I've come to the realization that it's literally impossible. Go ahead, try reading 200 pages of a book in one day and still find time to set up lunch and dinner meetings, conferences and conference calls, set up meetings with your employees, and then still find time to pay your bills. Yeah, how much time do you think you'd have left for say, I don't know, SLEEP?? The point is that the first step in getting an agent to notice you is being lucky enough not to be one of the poor bastards that were just thrown in the trash without being given a chance. Even if you survive the Russian roulette of the literary world, what makes your letter worth asking for a manuscript?

Since I haven't been picked up by any agents, I can honestly say that I don't have a fucking clue.

I've sent this particular agency five query letters, and am leaving their name out for fear of a lawsuit (I'm no lawyer, I have no idea how these things work, but you can get sued for almost anything these days and I'm not taking that chance). They responded to one with the standard "We're sorry, but we are choosing not to read your work at this time…good luck with all your future endeavors…don't let this get you down…" blah blah blah bullshit, and simply didn't reply to any of the others. Clearly, since I thought my story was brilliant, I just hadn't written an effective enough query letter. I sent more because I was so sure that this agency wanted what I had to put out there. Oh, how wrong I was.

Here is the email, in its entirety:

"Mr. Shupard (it should probably be pointed out that in every other letter that I've ever recieved, all I've gotten was a 'Dear Author'),

We have received your query letters, have read them thoroughly, and are requesting that you not send us any further inquiries. We appreciate your efforts, but we will never represent you, and you are taking up valuable time from our reading possibly important pieces for future publication.

Again, thank you for your interest in our agency, but we are not interested in you."

Ouch. Yeah, stab and twist.

Well, you're welcome for my interest, and…oh, what do I want to say right here? Hmm…oh yeah, that's right…GO KILL YOURSELVES.

With that said, "Gin and Tonic" is being put in a drawer…for now. I think 12 rejections for it should give me a good clue that it's just not good enough. Oh well, on to the next one…

-GS

Writing Exercise

I started reading a new book this past weekend called Bird by Bird on the suggestion of a friend of mine (thanks Carrie). It's a self-help book for writers, and it's the first that I've read that has not only kept my interest, but has also given me some very interesting drills and exercises to help with my ever-crippling writer's block. One of them is to write about what you can remember about school lunches, and this is what I came up with (Warning: this is a little longer than most of my posts, and it may contain some errors. Part of the exercise is not to worry about correctness, but rather to ramble onto the page, take one piece of it, and write something else):

 

School Lunch

    I remember when school lunches were both the most relieving and most terrifying things on the face of the planet. It really is hard to write about, as there were so many facets that went into the inner-political web that was elementary school. Honestly, when somebody asks me to recall something about a school lunch, I don't remember all that much about middle or high school (other than the senior table throwing random things at our freshman table…and my lacrosse players wonder why I'm so hard on the freshman nowadays. Bastards). All I can recall is elementary school; specifically, fifth and sixth grades.

You know what I'm talking about. It was that time in everyone's life when they start to notice that not everything revolves around their parents and how much they're getting for Christmas that year (although, a lot did still revolve around the latter at that time). This is when you started noticing the opposite sex, and how it freaked you out that not every girl or boy was so disgusting to you anymore; or when you started wondering how to make that weird smell go away (that happened far later for me, which ended up costing me a BIG price socially); or when the hierarchy of bully vs. victim was starting to shift, because the victims were starting to physically catch up to the bullies (but not for everyone, which we'll cover later). Generally speaking, I think we can all agree that it was a very awkward time.

Let's just start with the basics. Where were you when you heard the dismissal bell and the teacher told the class to get in line to leave for lunch (barring the condition that you had to be in alphabetical order, which did nothing but create utter chaos for the average 11 year old)? Were you in the front, back, or middle of the line? While we, as adults, don't look at this as overly important, as children we saw this time of the day as a strategically critical part of the war involving the social pecking order that had been occurring since we got on the bus that morning (were you in the front or the back of the bus, or were you one of the social royalty who had parents that cared enough to drop you off every day?). And then there was the way you behaved in line. At Rehoboth Elementary, I can remember the generally cool kids being middle-front and causing some sort of harmless ruckus, such as giving his/her friend in front of him a flat tire (where you step on the heel of their shoe) as revenge for beating them to the spot closer to the front of the line. I can remember thinking that these kids enjoyed being popular, but inwardly wished that they got the straight A's that the kids in the front of the line took home.

Personally, I can remember being in the middle-back with all of the other socially awkward children. Those behind me were the kids that everyone laughed at and wished that they could be around all the time for sheer entertainment, but would receive a swift fatherly ass-kicking should they ever be seen in public with them (this from the same people who always try to say that nobody is better than us…but apparently we're better than other people). On the flip side, a beating was in order if one of these kids gave you even the most remote of "hello" or head nods and it wasn't returned with some sort of mutual acknowledgement. Ah, the politics of youth.

Let's move from your place in the lunch line to your actual position in the lunch room, itself. I can't speak for private school lunch rooms, but as a public school kid, I can say that we were generally left to our own decisions on where to sit (until that time in 5^th grade when one kid put another kid's head through a door window for saying something about his mamma…another very serious faux pas in our young world). There were the cool tables, which were a healthy mixture of girls, boys, and races that banded together wherever they would get the most attention from everyone else; there were the nerdy tables, which split themselves up by sex and race, but generally had tables near each other in the middle of the room (thus, closer to authority figures should something go wrong); there were the trouble-makers, who also separated themselves by sex and race and mostly stuck to the corners of the room; and then there were the rest of us. I use "us" intentionally, as this is where I fell in elementary school.

We were the leftovers from those who failed to make a definitive decision about where we belonged as children, and even though we didn't realize it at the time, we made our own sect of the lunch room. Our group consisted mostly of kids who weren't the best looking and were painfully shy of everyone around us. We didn't get the best grades, but we weren't a huge cause for concern for the special education department, either. I've come to this conclusion about myself during the majority of my childhood at this time: I could have done much better in school. I was smart enough to get straight A's, but I was also concerned about where I fit socially. Those two things battling it out in my 11 year old mind was enough to make my confidence wither away like a slug that's been doused with a mountain of salt. I'm not saying this to get any kind of sympathy—as I don't feel that way anymore, I'm well aware of my friends and intelligence, and I genuinely love where I am in my life—but I know that many people could relate to me at that time, and that's what made up our group.

Moving on, there was also the question of the actual lunch. Those kids that brought their own lunch were always met with a sideways glance. Sometimes their lunches would be better than what you got in the lunch line, and sometimes you would feel so sorry for them that you felt the need to give them some of yours.

I can remember very specifically when I was in 6^th grade, I begged my mom to make my lunch for me because I was being picked on in the lunch line. She finally conceded and one morning, she gave me my very own brown bag which she said had my lunch in it. I gave her one of the biggest hugs I can remember giving anybody. When lunchtime came, I opened the bag and was immediately disappointed to find a very humbly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich…not even wrapped. There was nothing else, just the sandwich; no drink, no extra snack (I so envied the kids who got gummy treats in their lunch), and no extra money which with to buy these things from the lunch line. When I pulled the sandwich out and began eating it, my friend Jason asked what else I had gotten in my lunch, to which I didn't even reply…I just put my head down and quietly ate my sandwich. He took the bag from me and looked inside. I fully expected him to make some sort of announcement about my predicament to the table (as was the custom at 6^th grade lunch), drawing many jeers and jokes at my expense, but without saying a word, he just reached in his own bag and gave me his extra juice. My other friend, Brandon, was sitting across from me and noticed what was going on, and he reached in his own bag and very discretely slid a fruit roll-up in my direction. People often say how cruel kids can be (and they can), but it's mostly my friend's various acts of kindness that stick out in my mind from my youth.

But, I've digressed. The lunch line was an adventure that would take an extra twenty or so pages to describe, so I'll refrain from that. Some kids were lucky enough to have parents that would give them a whole $3 dollars so that they could buy double lunch, but most of us just got the standard $2 dollars (it cost $1.50, and who can trust an eleven year old not to let two quarters slip out of his/her pocket?) which bought us the main course, a milk or 2 juices (they were significantly smaller), a fruit cup, and a cookie. The fruit and juice were often used as tools of barter. On almost a daily basis, I would trade with a friend of mine because his mother would constantly pack rice crispy treats in his lunch. This was before the days of individually wrapped treats from Kellogg…these were homemade. Yeah, some kids have it really rough, don't they? He hated marshmallow, so I was always able to trade my chocolate chip cookie for his rice crispy treat. He and I are very good friends to this day.

Some of the nerdy kids would use their fruits and cookies as means of protection (on a side note, those nerdy kids are now some of the coolest people I know and are dating REALLY hot girls…oh, the irony) from the various bullies. This was a vital part of their survival. I attribute it to our situation with Kuwait…we'll give you cheap oil as long as you keep those lunatics from the north out of our hair. Sometimes these items could be used to convince the actual bully not to beat them up, or to hire an even bigger bully to whoop the other bully's ass (this was my favorite tactic). Again, some of the kids that I paid to protect me are still very good friends of mine.

School lunch is something that shapes all of us in ways that we can't even begin to imagine at the time. Even though this was just a writing exercise, it was really fun to look into my past and make something out of it. Excuse me for now, I think I'll write a few chapters of my new book.

Started a New Book

Yes, that's right. I'm just a glutton for punishment.

So this idea just came to me this weekend as I was finishing a book that I was reading. I don't want to give anything away, but I think if I can get to the end of this one, it'll be a good sell. It's a comedy with religious ties to it (comparable to Moore), but make no mistake, it's an original.

On another note, I just spent the weekend in D.C. with my family and had a blast hanging out with my sisters, brothers in law, and baby nephew. We did a lot of drinking, a lot of laughing, and for one of us in particular, a little bit of tumbling.

My brother in law got quite drunk on Friday night (I say that as if I wasn't drunk, as well. We drank a bottle and a half of Maker's Mark between the two of us), and took a fall down six stairs, leaving a faceprint in the drywall at the bottom. I'm not kidding...you could literally see where his forhead, nose and chin hit the wall. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure he was laughing about half-way down the stairs, because by the time I got there (2 seconds after it happened), he was already in hysterics. He took one look at the wall and said, "Come on, people! That hole was there before, wasn't it??"

Good Times...

-GS