The Happy Query Letter

A couple days ago, I wrote a query letter for my novel—my baby. With the help of a couple Tweeps, I’ve tried to make it more polished. Of course, it will probably evolve over the next couple weeks. Perhaps it never will BE perfect. I can sure hope it will be seamless enough to get some requests and, ultimately, an agent and publisher. There IS a lot of weight bearing on this one short letter. The book I’ve worked on for a year and a half now could be shot down or embraced by a few paragraphs. I’m freaking out. But. I’m really, very excited to venture into the agent querying stage of my desperately wanted writing career.

To be honest, I look forward to the rejection letters because I’ll know an agent HAS responded to me. But, in my squealing and giddy ways, with a sheepish grin clothing my face, I’d rather get a nice fat YES from an agent or two, three, maybe four. I won’t be greedy, though. It is what authors dream of at night. Um, I never had that dream, but I’m sure it will come soon.

For all who have written a query letter, I feel your pain, now. After at least one more manuscript edit and another round of beta readers, I hope to be turning that letter in to agents who may or may not take me on as their protégé.

I look forward to this stage and hope I can overcome the obstacles that surely will blow into my life. Uh, like more rejection letters than I’d like to receive. But as the quote at the top of my blog says: “There’s a word for a writer who never gives up . . . published.” – Joe Konrath. So let’s not give up, champs.

What I've Learned Wednesday Begins!

Over the past year, I’ve learned loads about writing and the publishing industry. I would like to hand off a bit of my “tip of the iceberg” knowledge to you. Plus, writing and the publishing industry are fascinating to me, so why not blab on about something I love, right?

Today, for the first “What I’ve Learned Wednesday”, I want to share about the infamous phenomena called “Social Networking.” I started writing my novel in December 2009. It wasn’t until the summer of 2010 that I became obsessed with getting it published. With talking to a few people, they told me a piece of WAY important advice. Social Network. Social NETWORK. SOCIAL NETWORK. Being an aspiring author, no one knows you at all—at least in the publishing industry. Even though I don't have a finished manuscript yet, I can be doing something incredibly important to get my name out there, right now and not later. Therefore when I have a finished manuscript, more people will know who I am than would have otherwise.

I already had a blog that I randomly posted on about my book, but was not consistent with posting. I decided then and there that my book is important enough to take on social networking. I WANT people to read my story, and NEED it to be published, therefore I had to place myself into the industry. I started blogging on a consistent basis, loving every minute of it. I found myself thinking of new things I could post—funny stuff, writing related stuff, etc. Be prepared because you’ll become obsessed with it.

In the process of social networking, you’ll eventually fall into a routine and be thinking of new ways to attract people to your blog. I share my posts on Facebook, Twitter, Google Buzz, and via email. You’ll find yourself revamping your blog to make it attractive and user-friendly. Make sure it screams YOU! You are selling yourself, so be yourself.

But. The key to my social networking absolutely was joining Twitter (emphasis added to express major I-can’t-control-myself enthusiasm). Twitter developed into a writing forum for me. Within a short period of time, I was chatting with people I didn’t even know. We discussed our love of writing and reading, even stuff not related to writing. At the beginning, I was given some valuable advice from one of my “Tweeps.” She said, “Don’t just talk to people, talk with people.” I have tried to implement that advice into my networking, especially on Twitter. Start a conversation, open up dialogue, and be yourself in the process.

If there is one piece of advice I can offer any aspiring author, it is to social network. NOW! Don’t wait. It takes some time to get into the swing of things. You may not have many people follow your blog at first. I am still working on a consistent following. You may not have people commenting on your posts, but keep going! Be persistent. Have patience. And be consistent. If you are consistent, people will wonder what you are going to post next on your blog, or say on Twitter. They’ll be expecting it. Once you have a following, you owe it to them to post, to tweet, and—in the end, have a book people want to read. Social networking has pushed me to get to the point that I’m at now—almost having a finished manuscript in hand.

Last tid-bit of advice from me to you is: Follow. Other. People’s. Blogs. You will learn an amazing amount of knowledge from them about writing and how to present your blog. Make sure that you comment on their posts. This will get your name out to people who follow the blogs you comment on. Comment on other people’s tweets as well.

Social Networking is the way I hope to get my baby—my novel—published, and it’s way fun too!

PS: This can be useful for other things you are trying to promote. It’s not just for writers.

Writer's Solitude

I was thinking about the last three weeks of my life. And. The last year of my life since I’ve started writing my novel. Alright, I'll admit, I'm a homebody. Since, I have started writing, it seems like solitude has become a feature of my life. I escape down to my "office"—the basement couch, and there I spend countless hours typing, typing more, and typing A LOT more. During which time, the cell phone sits by my side (yep, it's my extra appendage). Will I answer it while writing/revising/editing? ABSOLUTELY NO! I will answer texts because at least that doesn’t require a full conversation commitment. Mean, I know! When I am in my writing zone, I am in my zone. And. Nothing should tear me away from the glorified zone.

The cartoon "Emperor’s New Groove" expresses  well how I feel when I'm in my zone:

Pacha: What happened?

Old Man: Well, I threw off the Emperor's groove.

Pacha: What?

Old Man: His groove! The rhythm in which he lives his life. His pattern of behavior. I threw it off. And the Emperor had me thrown out the window.

Pacha: Oh, really? I'm supposed to see him today.

Old Man: Don't throw off his groove!

Pacha: Oh, okay.

Old Man: Bewaaare, the grooove.

Pacha: Hey, are you gonna be all right?

Old Man: Grooove...

My groove can’t be thrown off during this time. My poor parents have been placed on the back-burner. A lot. They come down to talk to me, and I half listen/half type.

I read a post by Kiersten White today discussing the craziness that happens in a writer's life. http://kierstenwrites.blogspot.com/2011/01/writers-love-their-crazy.html  IE: How many days has it been since we've showered? Personally, I have a hard time not showering every day—perhaps I'll miss one day, but for the most part I am a daily showered writer. Maybe the writer’s solitude is not a good thing, but we get the happy job of writing done. Seriously, over the last three weeks, I haven’t socialized very much outside of work. This weekend I am determined to hang out with friends—my treat for a long three weeks of getting another edit/revision done. I must apologize for the solitude that tends to infiltrate my life, but it is a consequence of being a writer. We have this intense desire to write our story, so we often sacrifice other important things.

Writers, how do you cope with the solitude? Do you skip showering? Do you force yourself to get out in the social scene? Do you lock yourself in your "office" for days or weeks at a time? Non-writers, what do you think about this post? Would you be able sacrifice so much to write?

Young Johnny Depp - A Short Story by Julia King

        My dream started with my sister and I sitting on the stairs in the foyer of a newly built colonial house clothed with white siding and baby blue shutters. The stairs were shinny and still smelled of varnish. We stared at a television that was playing a movie. A few of us were in the room awaiting something—something we didn’t know about. It was a dream so we didn’t need any reason to be there. The others in the room had no faces. They were just filling space in the recesses of the dream. My sister took notice of a boy featured in the movie.

“That’s Johnny Depp, only younger!” she exclaimed.

“Really?” I replied after rushing up to the screen to press my finger on the young Johnny’s face.

“It is him. Is he singing?” The movies scene scanned over a choir group, stilling on Johnny’s face as he sang a beautiful tune. It was like the young Christian Bale singing in Empire of the Sun only not as angelically.

“It looks like him,” she answered.

“Wow, he was even cute as a little boy with his chubby cheeks.” I finally removed my hand from the screen of the TV—a little dust clung to my finger in which I rubbed off on my pant leg. “Wouldn’t it be great to meet him, sis?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind that.”

Seconds later, the windowed door with lace curtains opened. A mom with long, brown hair and a young boy, no older than twelve, walked into the room. The boy was fussing and causing all sorts of problems for the woman.

“Let’s go, Mom. I don’t want to run errands anymore. Take me home, so I can finish my haunted house. Now!” he screamed.

“I will take you home when I am done!” She looked at him with little patience and shook her head in out direction. “He will be the death of me.”

I leaned toward my sister and whispered in her ear, “Is that who I think it is?”

The boy was now impatiently waiting for his mom who had disappeared into a back room. He kicked his sneakered foot on the hardwood floor, leaving a smudge.

I responded in awe, “I think so. Its Johnny only younger.”

As nonchalantly as possible, I shuffled over to where he stood. I looked at a vase of red roses that sat on a half circle table with three legs. “What’s your name?” I asked the boy.

“Johnny Depp. Why do you ask?” He sneered at me.

“Just wondering.” I smiled. “Are you an actor?”

“No!" He stuck his tongue out at me. "I would like to be putting the finishing touches on my haunted house, but my Mom,” he pointed to the other room with an accusing finger, “is taking her time getting home.”

Still in awe and gawking at the young boy, I suggested, “How about we go see it?” I eyed my sister, wanting approval to go. She nodded and gawked just as much as I was at the young Johnny. “My question is why are you making a haunted house in December?”

“Why not?” the young Johnny asked. I shrugged, knowing it was just fine to make a haunted house in December. It was a dream, and in dreams things automatically make sense.

We left without any thought of waiting for his mom. It was as if she had never existed. By the time we got to young Johnny’s house, his haunted house was astonishingly finished.

After a torturous first time through the haunted house, we exited it scared out of our wits. In actuality, the haunted house was whimsical and funny, but to us, it was catastrophically terrifying. When the multi-colored clowns popped out at us, they were smiling, not wanting to rip our heads off.

After walking out of the haunted house, the young Johnny demanded, “You need to go through it again.”

We complied even though we dared not go through again. Once out of it, he demanded the same thing of us, so we complied. After multiple times being scared silly at the rather funny haunted house, we finally wanted to leave, and no longer felt like gawking at Johnny anymore.

He turned on us. He told us that we could never leave. We were his captives and would need to travel the haunted house again and again. FOREVER. We tried to get out of the windows with no luck. We tried getting out of the front and back door, but Johnny always got in the way. There was always something up his sleeve blocking our way from egress.

Just once, he let his guard down, and we escaped through the front door. We ran out of the cul-de-sac only to be found by our little friend, Johnny.

“Where are you going? Don’t you like the haunted house anymore?” He gawked at us now.

“No, we love it,” I lied.

My sister kicked me in the shin. “No, Johnny, we hate it. We want to leave. Just let us go. Now!” she yelled.

“Alright, I admit, we are tired and want to go home. You are pretty much creeping us out kid.” I tried smiling at him to work on his possible softer side.

“But, you are the King Sisters. I have wanted to meet you for, like, forever.” He stomped his foot. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“What?” We both coughed out together. “The King Sisters?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “The King Sisters. I have watched you in TV and movies for, like, ever. You are famous.” He then was no longer a little boy, he was the older, one and only, Johnny Depp, and now he was graveling at our feet.

“Um,” I said, “We aren’t famous. You are?”

“No, I’m not.” He banged his hand hard on the gravel road. "Ouch," he said. He gazed at us with admiring eyes. "A little pain is worth it for the two of you."

“Don’t you remember 21 Jump Street, Edward Scissorhands, Benny and Joon, Chocolat?” I questioned him.

His chin dropped and a little drool spilled out. “What?”

“Pirates of the Caribbean?” I asked. He shrugged only to drool some more. “You can’t remember the movies you’ve starred in.”

“What? Did you say something?” He bent over kissing our shoes. “Oh, sorry, I’m dirtying your shoes. Let me get a tissue and wipe my slobber off.” He ran back to the house.

Looking at each other in bewilderment, we shot off running like mad women. Graciously, my red car suddenly appeared on the street corner with my keys in the ignition. We hopped in car, I put the car into first gear, pumped the gas, and we sped off. I looked in the mirror to see him running after us, with a pad of paper and a pen in his hand.

I could hear him screaming something inaudible. It sounded like, “Wait, just let me get your autographs. Please.” We turned the corner.

“Wow, that was weird. Us, famous,” my sister said.

“Yeah, that would be a trip.” I stopped at the red light, and looked over at the car that just pulled up. The car's window rolled down, and I heard the passenger saying something to me.

“Did you need something,” I said as I rolled the window down by pressing on the button on the armrest.

“Are you Julia King? Oh, my gosh, it’s the King Sisters. Look.” He punched his buddy in the arm, “It’s the King Sisters. They are so hot! Can we have your autographs?”

My sister and I looked at each other, not knowing what to say. The light turned green, so I gunned the car. The wheels screeched and we were off. I could smell burning rubber in my nose.

I woke up laughing. “Wow that was a strange dream. I should write a short story about it. 
So the blog has been written, some of the dream has been altered to make it more entertaining, and I am still sick with a cold. Maybe Johnny will read this one day and get a laugh out of it, as I hope you did.