“I’ve lost count of the number of emails I get asking for advice on how to get published. My initial reaction is ‘Why bother?’ when being unpublished is such fun and so satisfying,” writes Beth Webb. “Getting published by a mainstream company is great, but in all honesty, how many of us can really afford to give up the day job, even when we’ve signed that contract? Such a long, heartbreaking haul for what? The joy of writing should be just that – the writing.”

There’s something to this, but I don’t what. (via Books, Inq.)

If Flannery had a blog, she might post a bit of writing advice on occasion.

You would probably do just as well to get that plot business out of your head and start simply with a character or anything that you can make come alive…Wouldn’t it be better for you to discover a meaning in what you write rather than to impose one? Nothing you write will lack meaning because the meaning is in you.

I just learned of a new fantasy novel, Auralia’s Colors, coming this summer from WaterBrook Press. It could be interesting, engaging, even good. I see that Books & Culture’s John Wilson calls it “a vivid and continuous dream.” You can read the first chapter on the author’s site.

At this point, I should probably shut up, but we talk about the craft of writing every now and then on BwB, so in that vein, what do you think of these opening lines?

Auralia lay still as death, like a discarded doll, in a burgundy tangle of rushes and spineweed on the bank of a bend in the River Throanscall, when she was discovered by an old man who did not know her name.

She bore no scars, no broken bones, just the stain of inkblack soil. Contentedly, she cooed, whispered, and babbled, learning the river’s language, and focused her gaze on the stormy dance of evening sky roiling purple clouds edged with blood red. The old man surmised she was waiting and listening for whoever, or whatever, had forsaken her there.

So the little girl lay there cooing and babbling as still as death? How does that work? Wasn’t she moving her mouth? And she was discovered by an old man who did not know her name? Why should he know her name? He’s just discovered her. I would be surprised if he knew her beforehand.

Ed Pettit is rereading his reviews. “Worthiness isn’t such a bad trait . . .”

How much do you judge a book by its opening lines? I praised P.D. James a while back for her opening lines. It is a wonderful feeling to open a new book with a great sentence or paragraph, but how much does a poor opening sink your hopes for the rest of the book? What do you think of the following openings? Do they pique your interest or leave you flat? (I picked books of similar genre released this year or last.)

1. When the rain isn’t so much falling–be it in bucket loads or like cats and dogs–but rather slamming into the car like an avalanche of stone, you know it’s time to pull over.

When you can’t see much more than the slaphappy wipers splashing through rivers on the windshield, when you’re suddenly not sure if you’re on the road any longer, and your radio emits nothing but static, and you haven’t seen another car since the sky turned black, and your fingers are tense on the wheel in an attempt to steady the old Accord in the face of terrifying wind gusts, you know it’s so totally time to pull over. (source)

2. Starjet Commander Cody Ferguson, six, turned the gears, adjusted the knobs, and jammed the joystick into hyperdrive. Starship Galaxy went into a steep climb, super thrusters whining at top speed.

Back on earth, Daddy looked angry. Mommy cried. The doctor rolled his chair over, put his head close to theirs, and smiled the sour little smile that grown-ups smile when there is nothing in the world to smile about. (source)

3. The guy’s BO made Luke’s eyes water. He had long greasy hair, an eleven o’clock shadow, jeans as brown as they were blue, and a crumpled, stain-riddled Hawaiian shirt.

“This your first time to Agua Rancheria?” He sniffed loudly, wiping his nose.

Luke gave a nod and looked out the bus window, hoping to end the conversation.

No such luck. (source)

4.A dead man spoke to her from the shadows. “Seven o’clock,” his voice rasped, barely audible over the wind tumbling through the dry heat of late summer. “The Mint.”

Even as the wind carried it away, she began telling herself it was an illusion, a ghost speaking to her from the shadows of her own mind rather than the shadows of this pothole-laden street.

Still.

She put down the garbage can and glanced at Steve on the other side of the garbage truck. He was bending down to pick up a couple of clipped branches; if he’d heard the voice, it hadn’t stopped him. (source)

Some dictionary people have a little book of words they say “Every High School Graduate Should Know.” Lenore Skenazy writes about it.

The thing about actual word books — and the whole “Boost Your Vocabulary” industry — is that however fascinating it is to study etymology (unless that’s the study of bugs), some words are just plain old obscure. While delightful in and of themselves, there is really no reason to program words like “perspicacious” into one’s personal database. And yet on just such words hinge the SAT scores (and possibly futures) of many young people.

No reason to learn words like “perspicacious?” How else would a career-minded young lad quote Thomas Hardy, as do all the nigh successful lads in Harvard Square, by referring to “the perspicacious reddleman” who would have “acted more wisely by appearing less unimpressionable?”

This poster from Despair.com embodies a vision I’m coming to embrace in my own life. In the spirit of that sentiment, I’ll discuss a question commenters Sherry and Kathleen Marie raised on my last post, which was (in essence), “How does a head case like you get an agent?”

The answer is, “Once, by luck. Probably never again.”



(I’m not going to name my agents, by the way. They’re good guys who agented part time and never made it to the top of the pile. They made some choices that probably weren’t optimal, but then so have I.)

I’ve sometimes referred to “my agent” in blog posts, but that was an abbreviation of convenience. In fact they were a two-man shop. I’ll call them Primus and Secundus. Primus was the senior partner, and I dealt with him mostly when I actually had book contracts. I dealt with Secundus when I was out in the cold, at the beginning and at the end.

I got acquainted with them (by correspondence; I’ve never actually met either man) back when I was writing short fantasy stories. They were editors for a certain prominent fantasy and science fiction magazine, and they immediately impressed me with their taste and good judgment (by buying the first short story I ever sent them).

After a couple fruitful years (in which I never managed to sell a story to anybody else) they announced they were resigning from the magazine and opening an agency. They asked me if I’d care to come on board, and I jumped at it, knowing that getting an agent in the first place is one of the biggest hurdles a prospective author faces.

Then followed about ten years of nothing. I dealt almost exclusively with Secundus during that period, and they sent my first manuscript, and then a second, off to one publisher after another. Each one bounced back, although I got some flattering rejections.

I noticed, as time passed, that the agency was… less than energetic. Very compatible with my own personal style, of course, but not what you really want in an agent. They’d send a book off to somebody, and a year and a half later I’d ask them whether they’d heard anything, and they’d say, “Oh yes, we’ll have to give them a call.” Then another year would pass before the final rejection came.

Finally Jim Baen of Baen Books took the bait, and I started dealing with Primus.

Four books later, Jim Baen invited me never to darken his transom again, and I was back with Secundus.

And the slow, measured rhythm of submissions resumed. And again I’d ask them after a year or two if they’d heard anything, and again I’d get the impression that they’d forgotten about me completely.

Then one day I e-mailed Primus (I forget why it was him and not Secundus), and got no response. When I e-mailed him again, he replied that I should contact Secundus.

And Secundus told me that a) Primus was in bad health, and b) they’d recently noticed that nobody was returning their calls or messages. They deduced from this fact that they were out of business.

But Secundus said that he’d been in contact with a woman from a major agency, and she was interested in hearing from me. So I carefully sent her an e-mail with my personal bibliography, along with sample chapters from an unpublished book as an attachment.

No response.

I’ve done some research on this agency, and I have my doubts. For one thing this agency proudly declares itself a pioneering feminist agency. It was begun for the express purpose of getting more women writers published.

This makes me wonder if, after all these years, Secundus has ever actually read one of my books. Maybe he thinks I’m a woman. It’s a little troubling when your own agent misunderstands you so fundamentally.

So here I am. I’ve asked a couple writer acquaintances for references, but the one contact I’ve gotten went into the hospital about the time I e-mailed him, and so nothing has happened to date.

As you’d expect, knowing me, my hopes aren’t high.

What I need to do is go to one of the agent sites (here and here) I shared a while back, buckle down and start sending out query letters.

Maybe when this bout of light-headedness (and heavy-bottomedness) is past.

Andree Seu met with a small group to talk about Christians writing, I believe, both fiction and non-fiction of any type. She draws a lesson from it which she didn’t anticipate.

Maybe the word literary has too much cultural baggage.

Note: The Master’s Artist blog can now be found at www.themastersartist.com.

Hugh Hewitt just reported that a bomb has been found at an abortion clinic. I think it was in Austin, Texas (I can’t find the story online yet).

I know I speak for 99% of pro-lifers when I condemn all such acts of terrorism. If you’re a clinic bomber, tell me all about it. I’ll go straight to the police.

Well, it should have been a good day. Getting a column up at The American Spectator usually bucks me up a bit. Today, somehow, it didn’t work. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the weather–cool and overcast. Spring without enthusiasm. Around noon the Sickness Unto Tedious Self-Absorption began to metastasize in me, and pretty much everything I did after that was like swimming in a chocolate milk shake, only less tasty.

But I still dragged myself out for my evening walk, so I have a small glow of self-righteousness within to warm me. Tomorrow will probably be better.

Writer’s Digest published its annual list of “101 Best Websites For Writers” this month. Here are a few that might be of interest. Or not.

www.thinkbabynames.com lists the most popular baby names for every decade since 1900. Great for finding names for characters for your historical novel, or for finding a name for your baby that’ll get him/her laughed at for the rest of his/her life. On the other hand, the name might come back into style when the kid’s 18, and… well, he/she still won’t ever forgive you, but it might help get him/her onto whatever Reality Show is popular by then.

www.agentquery.com is a free site that lists established literary agents seeking writers. Also offers tips for approaching them.

Another agent resource is www.writers.net/agents.html. “…allows you to search for agents by name, location or topic.”

www.armchairinterviews.com is a site where you can access recorded author interviews. If reading me hasn’t soured you forever on authors already.

That’s all I’ve got. Go now and read my Spectator post again.