Writer. Mindfulness Trainer. Global Ed Cheerleader. Savvy Gardener. Happy Frugalista. A Former Oregonian Celebrates the Simple Life in Rural Uruguay.

This is a post about transparency.  As a helpful visual aid, I offer this photo of the roof of our new back porch.  The old one was black, making the porch really dark.  I wanted the light, especially since the porch runs along the kitchen wall and having it clear means much more sun in the kitchen.  (Feel free to remind me of this folly during the summer months, but for now, it’s fabulous.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about transparency in all its forms for a number of reasons.  One, the remodel is ALMOST done (no, really) and we’re shifting our focus to the garden and ways to use our old windows for a series of cold frames or perhaps a greenhouse.

But that’s not really what I’ve been thinking about.

See, actually, I’m in the middle of a long agent-shopping process.  Those who have been following me for some time know that I decided to end my contract with my previous literary agent at the end of December.  It was an amicable split, but I have to point out that most writers I know think I was insane to give up a perfectly good agent.  The thing is, if your agent isn’t into what you want to write, there’s really no point in trying to force a partnership.  I think it’s essential for both author and agent to have flaming enthusiasm.  If it’s not there for one of them, it’s time to move on.

Anyway, in January, I pitched a memoir to several agents, got a ton of interest, several agents offering to represent me.  I picked one.  We worked together on the proposal, which changed in very big ways, and she pitched it to three publishers, all of whom rejected it.  (One said it lacked energy/drama, two said it was too speculative–they wanted more of it done before they would commit to it.  Fair enough.)  My agent was on the fence, not especially confident about selling it in a crowded travel/memoir market, so I decided to put it on the back burner.

Something interesting happened during that process.  I decided I didn’t want to write a memoir–at least, not the version most likely to sell.  More importantly, I decided that I didn’t even really want to write nonfiction.  (Keep in mind that everything I say is with regard to the present moment–I am not saying I NEVER want to write nonfiction.)  So, if I didn’t want to write nonfiction, but I wanted to write, that meant I had to write fiction.

Hmm.  I had never written fiction.

But I gave it a shot.  Why not?   And I had fun.  I wrote a contemporary women’s novel in about two months.  My new agent did not represent fiction, so I had to once again go on the hunt for a new agent, sending out queries.  I did that in May.  Three wanted to read the entire manuscript and did so–one hated it but was actually quite nice about my writing, two liked it but were not confident they could sell it in this crowded women’s fiction market.

Not one to rest on my laurels, I had already started another novel.  This time, I thought I’d play around with YA (Young Adult).  It happens to be the fastest-growing area of publishing.  I didn’t know anything about it, really, but I had an idea for a story, so I just started in.

I should mention that while I wrote the YA novel, I was a) staying in six different places during six weeks because b) our house was being remodeled and was impossible to live in and then c) okay to live in but still very noisy/dusty/disruptive with workers pounding or drilling or sawing all the live long day.  These are not ideal conditions for writing a book of any kind.

The funny thing is that I DID write it, and I loved every single minute of it.  It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time, and that is saying something, since pretty much all I do is have fun.

In August, I ONCE AGAIN did the email pitches to agents, some of which dealt with YA only, and on Friday, I sent the full manuscript (87,000 words) to three agents who requested it.  Today, (Sunday) I sent it to another who did so.

Now, I wait.

I have no idea what will happen this time around.  I hope I get an agent.  I hope I get a book deal.  I really, really want to write a series of these YA novels.  But I get that the publishing market is shifting by the minute, that things are unpredictable, and that there’s no counting on anything.

I also realize that it takes a jaw-dropping amount of chutzpah to write a novel in ten weeks and expect ANYONE to even CONSIDER it.  It’s cocky as hell, really. But honestly, I think this one is pretty good.  I am not the judge of that, ultimately, but we’ll see what others say.  One thing I’ve learned is that if you want to get published, you must 1) write 2) pitch and 3) repeat.  You cannot be shy.  You cannot be reluctant.  You absolutely cannot give up when you get rejected fifty or seventy times.  You have to write and get better at it, and it sure helps if you happen to do it with a big grin on your face.

Another thing I’ve learned:  agents tend to be really nice people.  They love books, they love authors, and they really do care about the writing and their clients.  Still, it’s all about fit.  I’ve been very impressed by the kindness shown to me by agents, and truly appreciate the time they have taken to respond, to read my work, and to give me their honest opinion.  I feel confident that I will find the right agent for me eventually, and to be honest, I have really enjoyed this whole process.  I don’t even mind getting rejections–but I do prefer the personal ones (even when someone hates what I have written).

I’ll be spending the next days/weeks waiting to hear the verdict.  I also have a nonfiction proposal in the wings that I will pitch if the YA thing doesn’t really come together.  In the meantime, I’m going to go outside (spring is coming!) and play in the soon-to-be garden.

No matter what happens, I’m thrilled that I have had the chance to write so much in the last eight months.  For any aspiring writers out there who wonder how someone can crank out two novels and a third of a memoir in that time (admittedly not the highest quality, but a good 2o0,000 words nonetheless), I hereby reveal my personal secret to productivity:

A crappy internet connection.  No phone.  No television.   That’s my recipe for writing.

Wish me luck.

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