#Magicday…Hope

Tags

contests, hope, magic, Magicday, never give up, RevPit, thoughts

Yesterday was Easter Sunday. And whether you’re religious or not, the magic of that day is for everyone.

Hope.

Humans have an abundance of this power, we cling to it, raise it when it’s needed. Hope is so woven into our beings, it’s impossible to separate it from our souls.

The best kind of magic. The kind that persists. The kind that drives us forward even when we face terrible odds. The kind that keeps us smiling even when we want to cry…or helps us cry only to return stronger after the tears.

Pure magic.

The Human spirit is amazing.

Today, a contest RevPit comes to its dynamic conclusion. I have no idea how many, but A LOT of authors sent their words to a group of editors, who each offered their time and will each help one person make their manuscript shine. Authors sent their words to a certain number, three or four, of these editors depending on the editor’s wish list. The editors have been reading queries and the first five pages, tweeting about which ones they like and the reasons why they pass on others. Teasers. The stress and nail biting has been off the charts. Today, the announcement goes live, the participating editors make their choices, choose one manuscript out of the pile they had…(was it 50?). Together, editor and the author will work on revisions. I am not participating. I am not one of those brave souls who submitted, holding onto hope that their name will be announced.

@ReviseResub…the contest’s Twitter. Go see #RevPit on Twitter and meet all the fabulous people involved. I’ve been lurking there for days, and followed all sorts of cool people.

Go see their website here for all the details.

I remember being one of those people, in past contests. One of those many people sure they wouldn’t be picked, yet still stuck to the screen waiting to read the list of those chosen.

Because that little voice talking to me that…

Maybe…maybe…maybe…

Because hope.

I remember not seeing my name and that terrible sinking feeling of failure. I remember how I hated that hope for whispering those maybe’s. Yet that darned hope never went away. It came back.

The voice of light told me I hadn’t reached the end of my journey, just as those chosen in the contest hadn’t either. We were merely on different paths. That bright voice of never-give-up said that my time would come. Those shining thoughts of next time, of wait until you see what happens tomorrow made me keep working.

I have a dear friend who is participating in RevPit. She’s brilliant and marvelous and her time is coming. Maybe today she’s chosen for this. Maybe not. Like I said, her time is coming. Entering this contest is a step. Don’t know if being chosen is a step…yet. As her hopes soar in these final hours before the announcement, so do mine. Whether her name is announced or not, I’ll be by her side ready to cheer her one as she continues her journey. Just as she will be at my side as I walk my path.

Let the hope fill you today…everyday. Acknowledge those moments when it fades, when the shadows of failure and doubt nearly extinguish its light. But pay attention. Because hope doesn’t die. It will always return. Embrace it when it does.

Hope is the best magic.

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#SonofaPitch is Here!

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#TeamMaleficent, contests, critiquing, feedback, Katie Hamstead, opinions, Son of a Pitch, writing

This is a warning.

Tomorrow, Monday, September 12th, round two of the Son of a Pitch contest begins! This wonderful event is all about feedback and is headed by the fabulous Katie Hamstead (follow her on Twitter or go see her blog about this contest, all the people hosting, and the publishers involved in the final round).

I am hosting eleven queries and first pages here! ELEVEN lucky authors to join my #TeamMaleficent! I got YA Sci-fi and fantasy! LOVE!

Each query and first 250 words gets its own post, so the blog will be busy!

Feel free to read all the words, but the ONLY people permitted to comment are the authors participating in Son of a Pitch, those hosting and those who submitted. Like me!

This week is all about feedback from published authors. Maybe we have a little more insight? Maybe.

And to begin, I want to let all my #TeamMaleficent know that all my opinions are my own, and I will have opinions. Not all of my thoughts will spark some brilliant idea, not all will work for what you want your ms to be. Take only that which makes sense to you, take only what helps you improve your writing, and forget the rest. I will not be offended if you look at my critique and say, “Well, thank you, but…no.”

I am not here to tell you what to do. I am only here to point out things that might not be clear to me, to ask the questions that pop into my head, to INSPIRE YOU to polish those words to a shiny shine. Because it is all about YOU, my dear authors, my fellow worders.

TO BOLDLY GO INTO THE WORLD OF PUBLISHING…

Okay, yes, I have been watching Star Trek…a lot.

So, I’ll just go…read the words, prepare all the posts (ELEVEN POSTS!), and get my red pen ready. I do love to comment.

So get ready, for all the critiquing this week of Son of a Pitch and #TeamMaleficent.

 

Nestpitching… Oh the Words!

Tags

#nestpitch, contests, thoughts, writing

Hello! I’m back! Did you miss me?

*waits* *everyone discusses whether I had been gone or not*

Anyway. I want to talk about #nestpitch a contest for writers who are seeking agents. Submissions happened last week. When I returned from vacation (which was fabulous, by the way, thanks for asking), the slush reading had already begun! So I jumped in, trying to figure out where to go to read and what to do when I find one I like. Pretty much hanging on by my little toes, hoping I wouldn’t let my team (#TeamEggselent) down!

I am a slushie in the middle of reading about 160 pitches and first 300 words, searching for ideas that call to me, for characters and description and emotion that draws me in. And I have found quite a few! And have started stalking some of them on Twitter.

But we can only choose so many. This week my team will get our act together and request more pages (I know, some teams have already done that). And do MORE reading to decide on our top four or five. Then critiquing! My favorite.

I have lurked on the other side of these contests as a entrant. I have chewed my fingernails off as I worried about who was reading my words and WOULD ANYONE LIKE THEM? I was never chosen for any contest I entered. Nope. And it did hurt… only A LOT. But I moved on.

Being on this side is odd. I often think of all the people out there waiting for news… a tweet, a hint, ANYTHING. I feel you, my fellow writers!

As I read through all the entries, I can’t help but be struck with one big thought.

THIS IS ALL SO SUBJECTIVE! There’s no formula to use to figure out which ones are the best, which ones will be chosen by an agent. It’s just me and the words.

I have read all of the words. I have picked my top 20. One of my teammates has done the same. Half of my picks match hers and the other half, well, does not. I read all her picks and there is nothing wrong with them. Nothing.

They just don’t speak to me.

And that is the story of a writer’s life.

That simple phrase is why we don’t have an agent or a book deal. Finding the right person or publisher drives us to write, to send out queries, to deal with rejections. It makes us dig through the cupboards for chocolate, doubt every word we type, and, at times, curl up in a corner and weep (not that I have any experience with that… maybe… okay yes).

I keep looking at all the entries. Staring at them. Reading and rereading. Why doesn’t this one pique my interest? There’s nothing wrong with it.

Sometimes the pitch doesn’t do it, but the writing does. Sometimes the pitch captures my attention, and I want more of the writing to see where the story goes. Sometimes it’s the prologue that makes me want more.

I’m a YA girl, and, SHOCKER, most of my picks are YA. I’m a weird, fantasy, horror girl. So the romance and contemporary doesn’t speak to me as much as if there are demons or magic.

That’s okay. This is art. We’re all who we are. We can’t be anything else.

All those rejections I got. Oh well. It wasn’t their thing.

But you roll your eyes… “Easy for you to say! You signed with a fabulous publisher!”

True. But someday my book will be out in the world and some people probably won’t like it, won’t pick it up off the shelf.

And that’s okay.

Because it’s not about the people who don’t like it. It’s about the people who do.

All the nestpitchers out there, if you get page requests or not. Hold your head up high and continue the search for where your words fit. Your ms might have been someone’s favorite, but the team decided to go a different way. I have a few that if they are not chosen, I will probably find the authors and tell them that their ms was in my top picks. Not that it matters, maybe, but I’d want to know.

Through all the trails, all the waiting, all the searching for an agent… remember, you wrote the words for a reason. Out of a need. Out of love. Look for the people who will love it too. They’re out there.

 

The Road So Far

Tags

contests, learning, life journey, publishing, rejections, thoughts, writing

 

After the fabulous announcement of my signing with Reuts, I thought I’d share a bit of how I got here.

About ten and a half years ago, I came up with this crazy idea to write a book. The story had been in my head FOREVER, and suddenly it all came together.

In the summer of 2004, I began to write. The completed first draft of The Darkness of Magic, book 1 in what would be a 4 book series, sat before me in the winter of 2005. WOW! I wrote a book.

Now, the world of publishing was a mystery. So naïve little me, sent out letters (I can’t even call them queries, because… ug, they weren’t) to publishers. It pretty much went like this (and I am not proud, but we all start somewhere):

Hi! My name is Kathy and I wrote a book. Would you be interested in publishing it…

Good heavens. I never got rejections, cause I’m pretty sure those lovely words went straight in a trash can as the people reading them doubled over in laughter.

Past-Kathy had not a clue! But, I liked this writing thing so that same year I wrote book 2 of that series The Beast.

As I continued typing away, I bought books and took classes on how to get published.

I WAS DOING IT ALL WRONG!

What I learned:

1. First time authors were less likely to sign with a series. (I know that’s all changed now!)

2. Query letters are IMPORTANT! And there are rules to querying. Cue me feeling like an idiot.

3. You need publishing credits to be noticed by publishers. What? I have to be published to get published?

Okay. No problem.

I set aside my series and had an idea for a stand alone book. I finished my first draft of Doors in February of 2006. YES, THIS IS THE BOOK REUTS JUST SIGNED AS MY DEBUT. I wrote it nine years ago. Nine!

I also delved into short stories. I looked into the Writer’s Digest short story competition and magazines that pubbed shorts.

My short story Cinda (which has now been completely torn apart and is called Voices) received an honorable mention in the 75th annual Writer’s Digest competition. I was thrilled! Their letter said the fact that I placed spoke of my writing talent. Holy WOW! Maybe I could do this writer thing.

Later that year I wrote Everlife, a YA fantasy that still lurks in my computer until I figure out exactly how to deal with it. It might want to be MG… don’t know. A magically enchanted forest with a dark heart and a grumpy talking leaf. *shrug*

With two stand alone books and not quite sure how to do this query thing, I went back to my series and wrote the third one… The Heart of Darkness, which I finished in 2007. That year I entered the Writer’s Digest competition again and won another honorable mention with Xan and Zeke.

Through all this, I constantly revised. Alone. Looking back, I had no idea what I was doing. I just wanted to write.

In 2008, I wrote Faerie Wind, YA fantasy. Faeries. Evil little buggers that cause problems. I began to really delve into what it would take to be published. I read everything I could find. Yet I was still doing it alone.

But a breakthrough! My short story Marked was accepted for publication by Leading Edge Magazine! There it was in print, heck a beautiful color illustration for my story adorned the cover. I died. Seriously.

In 2009, I wrote Fate’s Mistake, YA magical realism. That one is waiting its turn for serious revisions – Doors had last year, Faerie had the year before (and collected all sorts of rejections!).

Also in 2009, I had a short story pop into my head and I gave the Writer’s Digest competition one last shot. I wanted a top ten, people. I wanted my name in the magazine. And A Ring of Mushrooms placed ninth. The tears that day!

Sometime after this I took a writing class, just to see what I could learn. During the class, a woman approached me and told me about a writers’ critique group to join, if I was interested.

A writers’ group? Light bulb moment! Doing this alone wasn’t going to cut it. I had done okay, but I needed other people, who knew more than I did… pretty much everyone.

And I stepped out of my solitary existence.

Over the last four years, I have worked hard on polishing different manuscripts and learning all I can about the writing and publishing world. I have built great relationships on Twitter and become a solid part of my writers’ group. I have found a great love of short stories, entering contests and subbing them here and there, and even ventured away from fantasy to horror.

Don’t you love evolving? Changing? Growing? Learning? This is life, my dears. A marvelous ride. If we’re lucky it never has a destination, just beautiful spots to visit along the way.

And next? The sequel to Doors (The Children of the Travelers, a possible title) swirls in my mind. Turns out the story needed more than one book. Who knew?

 

 

Let’s Celebrate! Flash Fiction Conquered

Tags

contests, flash fiction story, horror, mailboxes, Midnight Society blog, writing

I love horror.

My love of everything strange, fantastical, and scary began with my dad. Too young or whatever, Dad didn’t change the channel. Either put up with what strangeness was on TV or leave. I was exposed to many things, which warped my mind in odd way (but I don’t think it could have been avoided). When my sisters and I would enter the family room and gaze upon the wonder of what sci-fi, horror, or plain weird entertainment my dad had on, they ran. I stayed.

Never did I believe I could write horror. Never. Until now.

The Midnight Society blog is one of my favorites. The creepy stuff they find and share… seriously. AWESOME. So when they announced a flash fiction contest for the month of September, I sat up a bit straighter.

The theme… mailboxes.

I could not resist.

I thought I’d share it. If you enjoy it, go visit their blog to read the others. http://midnightsocietytales.com/2014/09/07/flash-fiction-contest/                       Maybe even write one of your own… maybe you will be chosen as the winner!

Here is my first attempt at something really short… I’ve never written anything under 2000 words…

And this will explain why, when I put my mother’s birthday card in the mail today, I shuddered when I raised that innocent-looking red flag.

Final Message
I deserve the great nothingness of death.

But it failed to devour me.

Late summer sunlight glares across the front of the white house with blue shutters. My house. Behind me, browning corn stalks chatter in a breeze. My heart flutters nervously at the thought of entering after my long absence, of facing the ghosts that haunted me.

My fingers tug at the plastic band around my wrist. I wouldn’t let them cut it off. After months of therapy, I wanted to keep my problems.

The wind dies, plunging the world into eerie quiet.

Squeak.

I turn, glancing at the field behind me and down the empty road. Nothing. The mailbox sits on its wooden cross. The red flag stands at attention, oddly out of place. I press the red metal shape down and it creaks in protest, echoing the sound.

I brush the confusion away and take one step towards the house then stop.

The front door stands guard. The windows calmly reflect the world. Icy fear closes on my heart. Does the fear still linger in the halls? Do the haunting voices of the dead wait to attack?

Squeak.

The sound, like a cry of pain, of hatred. I glance over my shoulder. The mailbox’s red flag trembles. A gasp lingers on my lips. Fear, anxiety, and confusion pound in my head. The street remains empty, the sun glinting off the pavement. The air vibrates with the terrible hum of cicadas. Stepping forward, my hand shakes as I reach for the flag, forcing it down. I gaze up at the sky, wanting to blame the wind, and blink in the bright light. Fire.

Like the blaze, the one I had started, the one that had killed. Beautiful raging flames remind me of the hell, waiting to claim my soul.

Squeak.

I snap my gaze back to the mailbox. Tears fill my eyes, blurring the red shape,pointing up to the sky as if in accusation. With a cry of frustration, I slap the flag into place. I stare at it as I back away, running my fingers along the long pink scars lining my wrists.

Squeak.

A sob rips from my throat as the red object rises up, slowly, purposefully. I twist the hospital band around my wrist as I step forward to face my fears, to fight. Like

I had that day.

A shudder crawls up my spine and settles in my mind.

All the death of that day.

My fault.

And it hadn’t mattered.

The letter, an uncaring form, screamed when I lit it on fire. My heart races with the memories of power as I fueled the inferno. The stacks of files on the floor had crackled as their edges blackened, curled, the flames spreading in moments.

The alarm. The screams. I had walked calmly away.

I reach for the mailbox. A wave of cold sweeps across my face.

Sunlight illuminates my jagged scar, the remnant of my search for oblivion. My lip quivers at the thought of eternal sleep, of paying for my crime. My heart pounds out a chaotic rhythm as I force the red thing down.

Tears stroke my cheeks with fear, with acceptance. Those who had died returned for me, demanding I pay. Therapy tried to convince me that there are no ghosts, but there are. They were with me when I sliced my wrists. They laughed. Shadows pool under my feet and the mailbox as if darkness gathers to take me.

Squeak.

The flag jumps to attention. The mailbox shakes.

Wiping tears from my face, I open it. Cold seeps from the blackness inside. My chest aches as I fight to breathe. My trembling hand is drawn into the opening as if I have no say, no control.

My fingers wrap around a solid, icy form, cold as death. Light glints off the blade as I pull the knife from the box. A piece of paper flutters to the ground. Sobs creep along my shoulders as I gaze at the note’s fiery red letters.

Finish what you started. Hell waits.

End

Anyone expecting a letter?