In which Flinch learns the hard way that social interactions can be fraught with a certain degree of…complexity.

Proceed to Book 3, Chapter 4

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This was my second Writers’ conference.

As we were packing up the car to make the trek to San Diego, I must confess I was wondering whether the trip was going to be worth the cost. After all, I’d just attended a conference in September, and probably not much had changed in the publishing world since then. Not only that, but by an odd twist of fate, almost all the agents there already had a copy of my manuscript, which meant I’d be going without any opportunity for a meaningful advance submission critique.

I’m probably not telling you anything you didn’t already know, but I’m going to say it anyway–I needn’t have worried.

At the last conference, I’d taken the approach that as a beginner, I should lurk to see what the conference was all about. Even when I had the opportunity to read, I passed. Such conventions develop a certain culture, and I wanted to see how things worked before I jumped in.

Not so, this time. If I wasn’t going to get an advance submission, at very least I was going to get feedback. You see, a couple weeks ago I’d gotten some valuable beta-comments that the manuscript could really benefit from an introductory chapter that put the early action into a broader context. I now had that chapter in hand, and I was proud of it. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t benefit from the attention of talented experts, and there would be talented experts aplenty in San Diego.

This time I did not lurk, I dove in. I presented my new chapter in four different workshops where it was dissected and analyzed by a host of writers and editors. As proud as I was of my chapter, I soon learned several key ways to improve it. My biggest epiphany was that I had been lazy about character introduction, leaning heavily instead on my love of snappy dialogue. The problem is, of course, that even the snappiest dialogue rings hollow without a solid mental image of the characters engaging in it. Sure, I had a clear image of those characters, but that’s no substitute for making sure the reader has the tools to ride along with me.

So, if you are wondering what the San Diego Writers’ Conference can do for you, allow me present a concrete example:  I offer the first page or so of my introductory chapter (accessible by clicking the links below) as it existed before the conference, followed by the same segment of text after applying all that conference expertise:

Before

After

I see an enormous difference, and I think you will too!

I’d like to give a special shout-out to the moderators of the various workshops, whose expertise and enthusiasm I found so inspiring:

In alphabetical order:

Marla Miller

Matt Pallamary

Laura Taylor

Bob Yehling

You’re all rock stars!

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In which Flinch finally learns the price of freedom….

Proceed to Book 2, Chapter 6

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Well, I did it. This weekend I finally put a little skin into the game. Up to now, I’ve risked only my free time and a few dollars here and there on this writing habit. For me, spending real money to attend the Southern California Writers’ Conference is a declaration of serious intent—a defiant internal proclamation that I’ve finally evolved beyond the ‘mere dabbler’ stage. My wife Genelle Belmas (a published textbook author in her own right) not only supported the decision, she decided to accompany me. How cool is that?

For me, the most exciting part of the conference was also the shortest. For an extra fee, I participated in Advance Submission Critique program, in which a professional evaluates the first 15 or 20 pages of your work and discusses its strengths and weaknesses with you for fifteen minutes. You can choose critics from a wide range of disciplines, including editors, publishers, authors and agents. My first meeting was with Jennifer Silva Redmond, editor-in-chief of Sunbelt Publications. I was heartened that she spent very little time on the submission itself and much more time on very helpful suggestions to tighten and improve my query letter. I took that to mean that at least the first few chapters of Practical Phrendonics might actually be ready to submit to agents. Thank you, Jennifer, for the morale boost!

My second Advance Submission Critique went even better. This time I met with Marisa Iozzi Corvisiero, Esq., agent and founder of the Corvisiero Literary Agency. After a discussion of some events that take place outside the scope of the submitted material, she suggested that Practical Phrendonics, which I pitched as a trilogy, would most likely fall within the fantasy genre (a genre that fortunately tolerates somewhat longer word counts).  She then asked me to submit a query, synopsis, and full manuscript of book one for her to review, with the possibility of an offer to represent if the rest of the manuscript meets with her approval. That alone made the whole conference worthwhile!

The decision to attend the conference in the first place arose out of the realization that writing is more than just a craft; it’s a culture. Unlike a lottery, where all you have to do is buy a ticket to get an equal chance to win, in fiction writing, there seems to be consensus that your chances of success are influenced to some degree by how well you play the game—and you can’t learn the rules simply by sitting in your office and writing.

In accordance with that premise, our first workshop of the conference began with a discussion of genre, which is the framework that publishers and bookstores use to categorize fiction. Freelance editor Jean Jenkins did an excellent job of explaining genre basics. Essentially, bookstores arrange books on shelves according to both genre, and how well a particular genre sells. For authors, awareness of genre may help steer your writing to a more lucrative category, or on a more basic level, may help with getting your manuscript published, since many agents and publishers only accept manuscripts from a certain subset of genres. That means they’ll expect authors to understand how to determine the genre of their material and follow the rules appropriate to that particular genre.  For example, each genre has its own acceptable range of word count, and if your manuscript is too long or too short, it is likely to be rejected on that basis. Some genres, such as romance and mystery have very specific requirements for when certain plot devices should appear. While you may end up bending or breaking some of those rules deliberately in crafting your novel, the more you do so, the more you risk rejection.  A prudent author, therefore, may want to pick his or her battles carefully—breaking only those rules that are critical, and scrupulously adhering to the rest. Most genres can be broken down into a myriad of different sub-genres, each with its own idiosyncratic rules.  The umbrella category of Mystery, for example, includes subcategories such as Cozies, Noir, Amateur Sleuth, Police Procedural, Hard-Boiled, and so on.

Next, I experienced my first Read and Critique session ably moderated by Matthew J. Pallamary, author, shamanic explorer, and editor-in-chief of Muse Harbor Publishing.  I chose to observe this session rather than participate since it was my first exposure to a Read and Critique. In these sessions, writers select five pages of their work to read aloud for the group to critique. The writer is not permitted to speak until the critiques are finished, and the critics are only permitted to address the style and effectiveness of the prose, not the subject matter. These sessions take place continuously throughout the conference, including rogue sessions that run late into the evening. So, if it’s this type of feedback you want, there are ample opportunities to get it. I could see these sessions being quite helpful for working the kinks out of a troublesome passage. If your prose is good, I think it would also be a great way to help people to connect you with your writing style. Now that I know how it works, I’d be tempted to give it a shot, but I’d definitely want to choose my passage carefully and make certain it was as polished as I could possibly make it.

The banquet speaker was delightful and came equipped with a compelling real-life publication story for his first novel.  Selden Edwards developed the basic premise for his bestselling novel The Little Book thirty years ago: What if someone from the present day were to wake up one day and find himself in Vienna at the end of the 19^th century? After working on the manuscript all that time thinking no one was going to publish it, Selden was (pleasantly) dumbstruck when the promotion of the work by his freelance editor to an agent resulted in a call in which the agent insisted on representing the work.  Soon he had an offer in hand—an offer in the high six-figures!  By all accounts, Seldon artfully interweaves fiction and Viennese history to remarkable effect. We’ll know first-hand soon enough, since we got an autographed copy! His second novel, The Lost Prince, is newly available as well.

It was also a real treat to meet and get to know Mary Vensel White.  Mary’s debut novel, The Qualities of Wood was a 2012 International Book Award-Winner and also had the distinction of being the first e-book published under the new HarperCollins digital imprint Authonomy. Stunningly well-read, Mary was a wealth of insights, tips, and anecdotes that kept us edified and entertained throughout the conference. We’ve downloaded a copy of her book and are both eagerly looking forward to reading it.

Other highlights include the Pitch Witches session, which had valuable tips for distilling the elements of your novel down into a concept suitable for hooking your audience, and the Agents and Editors panel discussion on the Perils of Premature ePublication, which discussed, in depth, the advantages and pitfalls inherent in the rapidly changing world of epublication. I even allowed Genelle to drag me to a session entitled Hanky Panky, Writing the Erotic, expertly and entertainingly mediated by Marilyn Friedman. It was perhaps the most eclectic of the sessions I attended, and definitely the one with the most laughs. Marilyn is a founder of the Writing Pad, where writers can get training in a safe small-class setting. Bravo, Marilyn!

Obviously, the conference was a huge success for me, if only for the solicitation of my manuscript, but what about for Genelle? While I can’t speak for her, I did catch her checking out the website for the next Southern California Writers’ Conference to be held in San Diego in February. I wonder if she’ll invite me to go, too?

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In art, as in life, perspective shapes perceptions and provides context. In writing fiction, early decisions about perspective can profoundly influence the work’s tone as well as readers’ ability to identify with specific characters. One need only compare Gregory Maguire’s derivative tale “Wicked” with L. Frank Baum’s original work “The  Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” to get a feeling for the transformative power of a simple change in point of view. In Maguire’s work, the reader gets a behind-the-scenes look at the same events that take place in Baum’s story, but from the perspective of the Baum’s villain, which, as you might imagine, results a tale quite different from Baum’s original.

Deft use of more subtle changes in point of view can also be used to tweak the relationship between reader and character within a novel. For example, in her debut novel, “A Discovery of Witches,” Deborah Harkness uses first-person narration for the main character, the witch Diana Bishop, but third-person narration in sections written from the perspective of her vampire lover, Matthew Clairmont. This technique effectively strengthens the rapport between the reader and the more ingenuous Diana and at the same time enhances the portrayal of Matthew’s character as more secretive and mysterious. In a more extreme example, George R.R. Martin uses abrupt viewpoint transitions in “Game of Thrones:” each chapter is written from the point of view of a different character. Martin alerts the reader to the nature of the transition by beginning each chapter not with a unique title, but instead with the name of the character whose viewpoint will be used. My draft of “Practical Phrendonics” takes a similar approach, with third-person narration throughout and a point of view that shifts among an ensemble cast from one section to the next.

When I finally read “Game of Thrones” (a reward for completing my draft), I ended up kicking myself a little for not having thought of the chapter-naming trick myself, since it would have considerably simplified the introduction of each new section. I’ve since shifted gears in the Demon of Histlewick Downs. For the first time I’m writing in the first person and it turns out that makes a difference not just for character development, but for plot design as well. The process of writing different sections from the points of view of different characters compels consideration of the circumstances and motivations of those characters in detail. When writing primarily in first-person, however, it’s easy to get lazy about those particulars, and I find myself in the unfamiliar position of having to remind myself to examine situations from characters’ perspectives other than just Flinch’s. Thus, while it may be easier for a reader to relate to a protagonist who is narrated in the first-person, I find it requires more effort to ensure the end product is tightly and convincingly plotted. That’s a trade-off I would never have anticipated without having tried both techniques. I must confess it’s given me a whole new perspective.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the novel use of a cutting-edge point-of-view technique popularized by veteran storyteller Clint Eastwood at last week’s Republican National Convention. While I’ve now tried my hand at both first-person and third-person narration, given Clint’s mixed reviews, I’ve decided, for the time-being at least, that non-person narration is just a little too avant-garde for my taste.

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I live in one of those towns–you know the type. It’s the kind of place where beautiful people bustle between their high-paying jobs, their perfect kids’ soccer games, and their tanning booths, rented, of course, by the month, not because there’s any chance a stray cloud might obscure the sun, but for the same reason they do everything else—because everybody else does it. It’s a place where women don’t so much get old as increasingly surprised; a town where nobody sleeps—until nine p.m.  Sharp. Except me, that is. I was on a case, and it was a tough one. What I needed was a synopsis. Not just any synopsis, but a synopsis for an intricately plotted novel of ambiguous genre that hosts a huge ensemble cast. I checked with all the usual sources but came up empty. After more dead-ends than I could count, it dawned on me just how dangerous a synopsis in the wrong hands could be. Since in as little as one page, a good synopsis reveals the entire plot structure of a novel, the last thing an author wants is for such a potent little spoiler to be generally available—and therefore, as I was finding over and over again, generally they are not.  You see, from my perspective a synopsis differs from a novel in one very important particular:  I’d read novels before—a lot of them. I had a good idea what made one tick. Not so for the synopsis. After being led astray by one too many red herrings, I was forced to finally admit I was in this one over my head.  It was time to call in the Chi-town expert.

I might have known. She was a dame, and a blonde one at that. She went by the name of Beth Anderson, and she had a way with words that made it clear, in no uncertain terms, where you stood and just exactly why it was that she was the expert. In three easy steps she blew the case wide-open. I was instructed to start by writing, in one sentence, what the book is about. Next, I was told to describe, also in one sentence, the bare-bones essential action of the beginning of the novel. Finally, I needed a sentence describing the essential action of the ending. This skeletal beginning provided just the framework I needed to build in turn, first a one-page, then a three-page and finally a six-page synopsis. Not only did this process peel back the plot layers to reveal the novel’s intrinsic structure at its most basic level, but it also helped me understand the relative importance of various subplots. By the time I was done, I had a whole new appreciation for the structure of my novel. I had to give her credit; this dame really knew her stuff. But, hey, don’t take my word for it. Check out her advice for yourself:

http://www.bethanderson-hotclue.com/workshops/writing-the-tight-synopsis/

Here’s the first sentence of my synopsis for Practical Phrendonics, crafted using Beth’s advice:

In a world where magic is Heresy, Practical Phrendonics chronicles the ramifications of a seemingly minor series of Heretical incidents as they escalate out of control, ensnaring not just the perpetrators, but also the investigating Inquisitors and a number of not-so-innocent bystanders in an epic conspiracy that threatens ultimately both the Crown and the Church itself. 

The rest, I’m afraid, will have to remain a mystery.

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I admit it–I led them on. I had the audacity to promise that if only they would come alive for me, to fascinate me, to challenge me, and most desperately (at least from my perspective) to resolve all their stubbornly disparate intrigues in a spectacular and coherent finale, then I would do my best to see to it that one day their stories would be told. I figured I was safe. After all, what were the chances they were going to actually enthrall me long enough to see things through? Novels, after all, can take years to come together, particularly when one only has time to look in on them occasionally. Surely, I thought, the tribulations of these imaginary personalities are merely a passing fancy, and some distraction will inevitably lure me away long before I will ever be at risk of having to pay up. Or failing that, the intricacies of their situations will cause their stories to collapse in a gordian tangle of unresolved plot twists. How could I possibly have known they would keep their end of the bargain? Oh, I tried to get out of it, but how could I, when confronted with the Monsignor’s look of resigned disappointment, or by Jonas, mocking me with his smile as if to say he’d told me so? Most compelling, however, was the smoldering fire in Dona’s eyes, letting me know in no uncertain terms that, if she has anything to say about it, such injustices do not go unpunished. And ultimately, that is how I came to find myself writing a blog detailing my foray into the world of literary publishing.

After well over four years, the story is written, the dreaded synopsis composed and the stage is set. I even have a tentative title and cover-mockup (see below). Let the querying begin! After all, even if everything should fall through, there’s always Amazon! Now if only I could decide whether it should be one book or three!

Tentative Cover Mockup for Practical Phrendonics

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