Why kill your darlings?

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Few writing tasks are harder for me than rewriting my opening chapter. I end up stuck to my opening lines like a suction cup, afraid to break the book by reimagining how it might open. It’s where I’m least willing to kill my darlings, but I’ve realized why my first chapter, of all places, can’t be a safe haven for favorite phrases, descriptive passages, or belches of backstory.

The story’s opening is like a cross-section of the book: it lets the reader glimpse elements that run right through the narrative, all the way to the climax. Anything in chapter one must earn its place through multiple rigorous edits.

I know this. Or, I thought I knew this. Still, I’ve found myself clinging to descriptive passages in particular, and to favorite bits of character background. The need to hold onto these things has felt almost superstitious, as if these elements are good luck charms that hold my book together. My chapter-one rewrites end up being hugely frustrating experiences as I leaf over earlier drafts, fretting over phrases I’ve left behind and thinking, wrongly, that reinserting them will reignite the magic.

For me, there’s only one way to find the magic: get right back inside the character’s head and be honest with myself about what they’re most preoccupied with, and what their deeper fears are (things that need only be hinted at, here in the early pages).

I’ve just finished a couple hours on my opening chapter, forcing myself to keep the character’s main preoccupation in focus, but it’s terribly hard. What a temptation there is to plonk in my good-luck-charm phrases and descriptions. I’ve known the phrase “kill your darlings” for years, but this morning was the first time I understood why it makes sense to do so. Holding onto those darlings can pull me away from the moment, out of the character’s genuine mindset as I strain to write towards a piece of imagery or backstory-memory that I’ve told myself I must include.

It’s like preparing spontaneous anecdotes in advance of an important social event, terrified of running out of things to say when the stakes are so high. But that never really works, does it? It’s much better to stay in the moment, react to stimuli, and allow pertinent facts to bubble to the surface in a natural way.

Last month I had a similar experience, realizing the need to stay in the moment later in the manuscript, where I introduce a second main character. This girl was truly starving, but spent an unnatural amount of time — and wordcount — resenting her father. When I looked hard at the scene, the hierarchy of needs dictated what I (if I were her) would be thinking, feeling and prioritizing in that moment. I went with the hunger, and her thoughts about her dad sort of leaked out later in the scene, in a much more natural and narratively helpful way.

How do you deal with darlings in your revisions? I’d love to hear any insights or challenges you experience, in the comments below.
Photo by victory of the people on Flickr

Your story can make a great story

The Mirror

I shouldn’t be blogging when this is my only clear morning to work on novel revisions, but yesterday’s twitter pitch contest aimed at increasing the diversity in children’s literature has me thinking thoughts that are crowding out everything else.

#DVpit, the brainchild of New York literary agent Beth Phelan, took over twitter yesterday, encouraging writers with polished, ready manuscripts to put a one-liner about their work onto twitter if theirs is a diverse book — especially if the writer him- or herself is from a diverse background. Of course that’s open to interpretation, but here’s how Beth described DVpit.

So for example, if you are a writer of colour and your book centres around characters of colour, or if you are a writer with a disability and so is your main character, #DVpit wanted to hear from you yesterday.

By the way, if you missed yesterday’s contest and you’re writing a diverse story that’s ready to be seen by agents, you haven’t missed the boat. It’s clear from yesterday’s huge industry interest in #DVpit that agents and publishers are keen to hear from you whenever your story is at its best.

That’s why I wanted to jot down some thoughts today – to encourage you, whoever you are, not to be afraid to put your own culture – or elements of it – into the story you’re writing for children. I’m a Caucasian, first-generation Irish-American now living in Scotland, so I don’t pretend to have first-hand experience of living in our society – which still tends to prioritise and reward white, male, heterosexual, middle-class Judeo-Christian backgrounds – as a person from a minority or marginalised background.

But I do know what it’s like to assume, at a gut level, that my own story isn’t as interesting as something I could invent. The first two manuscripts I wrote were set on a space station, centred around a boy struggling with self-confidence issues. The problem with skilled writers is that they can write just about anything and make it sound good, and I was indeed able to write a competent story that had very little of my own guts, fears or fantasies in it.

It was only when I wrote a story that I decided was going to be 100% for me – with deep roots in my own Irish-American Massachusetts upbringing – that I tapped into something special. That third story was the one that got me my amazing agent, Jennifer Laughran, and while a huge amount of writers-craft work and practice was needed to pound the story into shape, I do believe the story works because it’s plugged right into my guts, into who I am.

Don’t discount your own heritage, background, insights, inherited legends or cultural traditions if you’re looking for the stuff of your own stories. I’m not giving the pat advice to write what you know; I’m saying don’t forget who you are when you’re looking for ideas that resonate.

The best advice I remember hearing on this topic is “write what you fear.” (Who said that? If you can remember, stick it in the comments below.) All the way through my Massachusetts book, I had the palpable sense of exploring things that really, really scared me.

And those are the books I adore reading: books like YAQUI DELGADO WANTS TO KICK YOUR ASS by Meg Medina or Brian F. Walker’s BLACK BOY WHITE SCHOOL, or Lindsay Eagar’s HOUR OF THE BEES, or Julie T. Lamana’s UPSIDE DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, where the main character struggles to find peace with where they came from and where they want to go. Not all those stories, by the way, are own-voice tales by and about authors from the same tradition. But they are the stories I love most, because they pack an unbeatable punch.

A lot of people in the publishing industry would agree that books on shelves don’t reflect the true diversity of the great wide world, and #DVpit looks like it’s a step in the right direction, encouraging more writers to tell stories that spring from their own backgrounds. I’ve looked at Twitter contests for some years – that’s what set me on the road to finding my amazing agent – and I’ve never seen such a high calibre of industry folks watching the one-line pitches as I saw yesterday with #DVpit.

Whatever your story is, write it, make it awesome, hone your pitch until it shines so much it hurts your eyes, then submit. What have you got to lose?

 

 

 

Mirror photo by Pellesten on Flickr

Plot, structure, death, death and more death

Edinburgh Central Library SCBWI workshop

I’m fixated on plot and structure at the moment – you may be, too, if you’re a writer tackling revisions on a work in progress or a NaNoWriMo draft from last year.

This year, for the first time, I’m editing a manuscript that I’ve left for a long, long rest. I wrote it more than a year ago. I haven’t let a first draft sit for so long before, but I’ve been tied up with revisions on my middle grade sci-fi which is on submission (gulp, choke) with publishers. I completely credit plot and structure thinkers like Darcy Pattison and James Scott Bell with helping me get that manuscript this far – it was their advice that helped me turn my earlier draft of the sci-fi story into something stronger.

If you haven’t read NOVEL METAMORPHOSIS (which was the one craft book that all four tutors at the BookBoundUK Retreat I attended in 2014 unanimously recommended) definitely get a hold of it. I’m also slightly addicted currently to James Scott Bell’s WRITE YOUR NOVEL FROM THE MIDDLE.

Here in Edinburgh our SCBWI Southeast Scotland network hosted a workshop by Scottish YA author Christina Banach earlier this month, giving a quick tour of Bell’s plot and structure techniques. Places were limited and sold out quickly for that intensive, but I did a write up of the plot workshop here for Words and Pictures, the SCBWI British Isles magazine, if you want to read up.

What struck me most about the day was the renewed focus it gave me on plot stakes and character “death” – be that physical, emotional (“dying inside”) or professional death – as James Scott Bell discusses in his various structure books.

In fact, on reading THE LIE TREE recently by Frances Hardinge – it’s just won the overall Costa award here in the UK, deservedly so – it struck me that all three kinds of death are grappled with, both within the main character and within her father who she so admires. In fact the whole story could be described as “death by Victorianism;” wow, that era knew how to make folk suffer.

Reflect and snap

I’ve been trying to reflect more on my writing, as my SCBWI buddy Louise Kelly recommended; Snapchat has been useful for this, as it lets me scrapbook images and video clips that capture what I’m thinking about the revising process.

If you don’t know Snapchat, you’re probably not aged 18 to 24; neither am I. But it may be worth investigating, because it does make keeping a video diary quite easy. Although it first began as a straight messaging app, similar to Skype, Snapchat now lets anyone post pictures and videos to their “story,” a.k.a. public timeline, visible to anyone.

Snapchat poses huge challenges, though, for those of us trying to get a handle on it – and not just because all content vanishes after 24 hours. There are also no hashtags, no lists as on Twitter, and no way to search public timelines, although the user directory can be searched by user name. It’s like a treasure hunt, finding publishing peeps to follow, but some cool folks I’m following on Snapchat include mega-agent Suzie Townsend, plus Chronicle Books and Quirk Books (sztownsend81, ChronicleBooks and QuirkBooks).

I’m cobbling together my snaps in YouTube, but there’s not much there at the moment – could be useful, however, if you’re an author curious about how others are using Snapchat. I’M NO EXPERT, but I am rather enjoying what it’s doing for my vow to be more reflective.

Whatever you’re working on, I hope your writing’s going well. You can find me on Twitter here or add me on Snapchat at sheilamaverbuch.

 

 

How I got my agent and what nearly stopped me

alone on stage by Kian McKellar on Flickr

I’ve vacillated about whether to record this journey, as it may be the most personal thing I’ve written yet, but all things considered, I think it’s best to capture the story of how I signed with a literary agent, and the fear that almost stopped me.

For 20 years I’ve earned a living from writing, first as a journalist and then as a copywriter, so getting words onto the page and seeing my name in print wasn’t the difficulty or the dream. Like a lot of writers, my true and secret ambition was to write for children, crafting stories that the 11-year-old me would have read without stopping, forgetting meals, bedtime, and even homework to read just a little more.

It was hard having a goal that I wanted so badly, I hated discussing it, in case friends delivered no encouragement, or the wrong kind of encouragement, or urged me to self-publish. The goal of becoming a children’s writer was so precious and so huge, like a gigantic and slightly embarrassing imaginary friend, that it wasn’t until I was 33 that I looked that dream in the eye and made the first inquiries about how one goes about that kind of thing.

I approached a published children’s writer in Dublin, back in August 2003. How could I start writing for kids? Everything I’d read as a child was still in my head, but did kids still like that Enid-Blyton, C.S.-Lewis kind of thing?

No, it turns out – not when it’s written in a voice that so blatantly wasn’t mine, but was an unknowing mash-up of Blyton-Lewis-Montgomery. So we can skip the first nine years of my journey: the science fiction caper I quickly wrote in 2003 that was just as quickly rejected by a London agent. That sole rejection was enough to skewer my confidence, and the dream went back to sleep for years.

A manuscript in the attic (seriously)

It was only during a clear-out of my mother’s attic in 2012, when my kids were five and seven, that I came across that rejected science fiction manuscript. By then I’d read a new generation of children’s books and could see that my story wasn’t bad. On the advice of author illustrator Debi Gliori, I joined SCBWI, and it was the smartest thing I could have done.

SCBWI helped me stop spinning my wheels and turned me in the right direction, helping me learn about the market, introducing me to industry professionals like agents and editors, and letting me meet like-minded writers who shared the same, gigantic, imaginary-friend dream.

The first heartbreak: not-bad isn’t good enough

The first useful thing SCBWI taught me, thanks to a 1-to-1 at the 2012 conference with then-editor Non Pratt, was that my revised, not-bad manuscript wasn’t good enough to submit to agents. I’m not going to lie: that feedback was a bitter pill. And by bitter I mean cue the eczema flare-up, the wretched self-blame. Who was I, anyway, to think my ridiculous imaginary friend and I could ever get anywhere?

Fortunately I’d begun to write something else, and in the writing had discovered something about story craft. This story was, I imagined, going to be Book Two in a series, and already I could feel it was stronger than Book One: the story faster, the characters more real. So I threw myself into the writing.

Another heartbreak: Book Two had no ‘voice’

I submitted Book Two to an agent in November 2013 – right around the time that an editor I met advised aspiring authors not to write a series until the first book had sold. When Book Two was rejected by an agent, it was as awful (if not moreso) as when not-bad Book One fell flat. The agent said my story didn’t have a strong enough voice for her to successfully represent me, although my way with words was promising.

I needed more feedback than that if I was to progress, and fortunately, at that same SCBWI conference I’d won a raffle prize of a full manuscript read from a top agent. (For me, SCBWI conference raffle prizes have been gold. They’ve garnered me feedback from agents and editors who are otherwise too busy to guide early-stage writers.)

On the clue train: what do I do well? What needs work?

The 2013 feedback I received from that top agent was the first of many clues I began to hoard about my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. This path toward publication was beginning to feel like a videogame: I dashed from wise gatekeeper to wise gatekeeper, most of whom spoke only in riddles that it was up to me to decode. What was this “voice” they spoke of? What did they mean when they said, “where on the shelf would your book sit?”

I began to read like crazy, getting through more than 100 books for middle grade and young adult readers; I noted what worked, discovered authors I loved, and kept track of it all with Goodreads. Reading widely wasn’t enough, though: I had to write as much as possible, too, and in 2013 I tried NaNoWriMo, which challenges participants to get 50,000 words onto the page during the month of November.

In my 20s I’d had some success as a professional actor, and I started to feel how similar writing was to acting. If I wrote “in-character,” the way I’d acted, would that give my story this elusive voice?

For NaNoWriMo 2013 I experimented with a new idea – not a caper set on a space station, but a story set in my Massachusetts hometown, about a girl who wakes up every day in a different version of home, and who’s trying to get back where she belongs.

The rough draft I produced had voice, I was sure of it. But it needed revising. Through SCBWI I made inquiries about editors I might work with; I sensed that an experienced editor could give me the macro oversight I needed in order to revise properly.

The editor did indeed read the manuscript, pointing out again my strengths and weaknesses. And at the risk of sounding like a breathless and mentally fragile Victorian shut-in, I again withered at her feedback. I’d poured my heart and soul into this draft. And I’d got what I asked for: an honest critique. So why was I going to pieces?

Heartbreak the third: even a deeply-felt draft needs revision

I was seeing a pattern in myself and in the creative process, and I didn’t like it: submitting my work for professional assessment felt like the worst kind of vulnerability: more humiliating than strolling naked down Main Street, more terrifying than a parachute jump.

It was the true fear of the child urged to stand in front of the whole school and sing a solo: bare and immediate and alone. Those three exhilarating years in my 20s as a professional actor had ended in part because I wanted to train as a journalist, but if I’m honest, a big reason I left acting was because the rejection was intolerable. Each part I didn’t secure was a failure. Rejection of my creative writing felt like an unpleasant déjà vu.

If not for my SCBWI friends, and more peers and professionals I met at the wonderful BookBound retreat in May 2014, I would surely have stopped. BookBound in particular delivered an epiphany: revision isn’t the mark of failure, it’s the mark of a professional. Even a deeply-felt first draft is unlikely to be the most eloquent expression of the story concept.

This epiphany was a tremendous liberation. After BookBound I threw myself into the world of revision, discovering craft books by experts like Darcy Pattison, Renni Browne and Dave King, James Scott Bell, Noah Lukeman. These experts were the toolmakers, offering me proven techniques to turn a promising manuscript into a ripping story.

Revision tools work, but none is a magic bullet

Their tools worked. During summer 2014 I revised the Massachusetts book hard. Showing it to BookBound and SCBWI friends, I discovered which aspects of the story readers found most intriguing. By autumn 2014 I began submitting to agents, and this time I wouldn’t let one query and one rejection stop me: I queried widely. When I quickly received full manuscript requests, friends told me I should be elated. And I was, cautiously so. In fact I was quietly confident.

Make that prematurely confident.

Twenty-nine submissions and rejections later, I was bereft. Heartbreak number four was here, and it just about finished me off. I had used the tools correctly, hadn’t I? So why didn’t agents love the story is much as I did?

The answer again came via SCBWI. At an autumn 2014 conference raffle, I’d won a full-manuscript review from Rebecca Lewis-Oakes, an editor then with Faber and Faber. Her five-page editor’s letter arrived on Christmas Day 2014. Rebecca’s letter, along with the detailed feedback that agents had kindly provided, sat on my desk for two months while I put the Massachusetts book away.

The story had broken my heart and I resented giving it any more time. Instead, I took out the revising tools and began to chip away at the first draft of another book, set in Scotland, that I had written during NaNoWriMo 2014.

The Scotland book was interesting – my first fantasy story – but I could already see it needed a vast amount of revision. All that deep, methodical revision I’d already done on the Massachusetts book would be wasted if I didn’t make one last push to use the professional feedback, and try to find an agent.

The final stretch: into the breach with the Massachusetts book

In March 2015 I began heartfelt revisions on the Massachusetts book, taking the advice several experts had given, to introduce a new character. I also tried to clarify something I’d thought was the heart of the story, but that readers weren’t reacting to: the connection between the main character and her older sister.

By this stage I knew how precious industry interaction was, and I enthusiastically attended a live Writer’s Digest webinar in May 2015 by Jennifer Laughran, a senior agent with Andrea Brown Literary Agency. Webinar participants also got a critique from Jennifer, and her encouraging comments on my revised opening pages gave me hope.

I burnished my pages throughout summer 2015 – I devoted July just to adjective and adverb work, scrutinizing each descriptor in the 50,000 word manuscript. I also workshopped the revised manuscript and query letter with SCBWI friends.

In September 2015 I renewed my subscription to Publishers Marketplace to research agents; I wanted a US-based agent, since the Massachusetts book was very American. I started to build a target list of agents who represented not just middle grade, but also picture books, which I aspire to write. If an agent was on my A list, I refused to submit to them until I’d read at least one title they’d sold.

And then I panicked. In November I texted my SCBWI friend Louise, confessing that I couldn’t face submitting and being rejected again. She advised I take a breather and forbade me to do anything for a week. When KidPit, a Twitter pitching contest, came around (I’d enjoyed and found a great mentor and a beta reader through the previous year’s Nightmare on Query Street Twitter contest), I jumped in, risking a one-line tweet pitching the Massachusetts book. To my shock a reputable New York agency immediately requested my opening chapters.

Polishing the pitch, not just the pages

Simultaneously I’d been working on my live pitch for The Hook, a SCBWI 2015 conference event to let writers pitch their stories live on stage to agents. When I was chosen for The Hook, the terror of that was all-consuming, and I practiced my pitch ad nauseam, until I could do it in my sleep (see more on The Hook in my blog post here).

Whether for a one-line pitch or a two-minute speech, I could now tell my story easily, because I’d come to know it so deeply, including the all-important heart: that connection between the sisters. The KidPit manuscript request had given me confidence, so I quietly submitted to three agents on 13 November.

Within a month, I had four offers of representation, a long-listing for Undiscovered Voices, and a shortlisting for another Scottish award, plus I’d won two pitching competitions, including The Hook. Those four weeks were hectic, including a trip to the Big Sur Children’s Writing Workshop in California, and a chance to meet a whole clutch of agents and high-profile editors, in person.

The stupendously stressful business of choosing among different, equally strong offers of representation is not something I wish to repeat. Every agent was a luminary – all were on my A list. In the end, after speaking with writers each agent represented, I contacted Jennifer Laughran to accept her offer of representation in mid-December.signed contract abla

I am beyond thrilled to be represented by Jennifer; I hardly let myself believe this was happening, until the signed contract arrived last week, just before Christmas. When I ran to my diary to record this astounding turn of events, I saw it was exactly a year since my “heartbreak four” entry, when I nearly abandoned the Massachusetts book altogether.

I’m glad I didn’t. When I opened the envelope from Jennifer, I may or may not have placed the signed contract under the Christmas tree and taken a picture of it. The journey’s not over, of course, but I’m ready for what’s next, whatever revisions may come. It’s all part of the process.

 

What I learned about finding a literary agent

Still reading? Really? Ok, then maybe you’ll be interested the seven things I learned during this process of finding a literary agent.

  1. The story is the thing. As Jennifer has said on her fabulous Tumblr where she answers questions from writers, she really just wants to know about your story in your query. Stylish writing is awesome, but I didn’t get anywhere near to my goal until I had a gripping story to tell, because I’d written it from the heart. And thanks to revision tools, I’d finally managed to tell that story in a way that was compelling enough to interest agents.
  2. Friends who critique and who care are vital. It may only be during the beta-reader process that you discover the most intriguing elements of your story. Friends and family are acceptable beta readers, but writers – even those on an earlier stage of their journey – have a storyteller’s sense and can highlight weaknesses and strengths in your manuscript. These writer friends are also your oxygen when the heartbreak comes, which brings me to my next point.
  3. This is going to hurt. Submitting, and being rejected, are agony, but don’t let that stop you. Getting onto that bare stage, all alone except for the song you’re going to sing, becomes tolerable when you know other writers are doing the same thing, on their own empty stages, in front of their own audiences. When the rejection comes – ideally with constructive feedback – you don’t have to act on it right away. But using that feedback (especially from industry professionals) can help you rebuild and fortify your story. Of course one rejection, or even 10, doesn’t mean your story won’t win the heart of an agent somewhere. For me, it was important to know when to stop submitting and go back to revise further. And it was equally important to let the sting subside before I began that revision.
  4. I learned about myself and how I write. Turns out that I write fast, but I need to revise slowly and deeply. Over the past three years I’ve always had two different manuscripts on the go, and for me that works: being able to throw myself into a completely different story was a great distraction while I was on submission.
  5. Get closer to agents and editors, whatever it takes. Go to writing retreats, go to conferences, join SCBWI, take up any opportunity for professional feedback of your opening chapters. If there is no SCBWI network in your area, start one, as I did in southeast Scotland with my friend Louise. Industry organizations like SCBWI get you closer to (and defuse your fear of) the professionals who’ll help you improve.
  6. Seek feedback on your query, not just your manuscript. Pitching competitions like The Hook and the 10-word pitch competition at the SCBWI annual conference are brilliant. For new projects I’m crafting a story pitch at the rough-draft stage, and that pitch helps keep me focused. Your writing friends will spot holes in your pitch and query letter: let them do so before an agent does.
  7. Be professional, prompt and polite. When you’re ready to submit to agents, a very specific etiquette is expected, one that’s easy to research online. Especially if you begin to receive one or more offers of representation, keep everyone you’ve submitted to informed, and appreciate that they’ve cleared crowded desks to read your story quickly. Listen to their ideas. Take notes on your conversations. Let “the professional you” handle this part of your journey. Keep your wild imaginings, fears and anxiety on simmer for when you’re writing. For the query phase, pretend you’re at the bank or applying for a job, and be that cool-as-a-cucumber you.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear if there are any tips you’d give to writers who are looking for a literary agent. What worked for you?

 

Main image by Kian McKellar on Flickr 

How to get the best from a critique

hear no evil by SoCal Photo DesignCritiquing is never comfortable for a writer. Your ego and your dreams for the manuscript are on the line when you pass your work-in-progress to another person and ask for constructive feedback. But it’s a necessary evil – and, if you think about it, it’s not evil at all. Critiques are the route to making your story as clear and compelling as it can be. And that’s what you want, right?
Continue reading “How to get the best from a critique”