I’m sorry to inform you…

Rejection letters, or rejection emails (for lazy people like me who couldn’t be bothered submitting by snail mail) are a regrettable fact of life. You hear the old stories about authors who could paper the walls of their study with the rejection letters they have received – well, at least there would be a consistent, even if tedious, pattern to your walls. I’ve received scores of the things myself and my reaction has ranged unpredictably from “utterly crushed” to “who the hell cares”. There is no easy way to respond when an agent or publisher sends you the dreaded rejection and it always seems to catch you on the hop.

It seems to me that the biggest danger in rejections is that it can then affect your writing. You can begin to lose confidence that any of the stuff you’re writing is any good. After all, you have the evidence of its crappiness from professionals in the publishing business who “regret that your work is not a good fit for their list”, or worse still “is not something they would wish to be associated with.” As the small crowd of disheartening missives clamor round you screaming for attention, you can begin to let your delicately constructed self-assurance slide. You are then all set for a good long period of writer’s block.

One of the ways I’ve tried to avoid that is by treating submissions and the inevitable rejection simply as admin tasks. Friday, for me, is admin day. I decided that every Friday I would send something out to an agent, a publisher or a literary magazine. I have a database that keeps track of what I’ve sent out and when I can expect a reply. Then I set alarms on my phone and on my computer to remind me to follow up on submissions. Every time I send something out, I enter it in the database along with the title, type of work (novel, poetry, non-fiction etc.), the date and the follow up date. Every time I get a response it too goes into the database along with the date. Does this sound like an elaborate way of documenting my own failure? You could look at it that way, but I prefer to look at it as a way of compartmentalizing the submission/response aspect of my being a writer, which means I can treat it separately from my actual writing.

Eventually, I couldn’t understand why agents and publishers didn’t want to take my manuscripts. After all, everyone else I’d shown them to loved them and assured me that they were definitely publishable. At that point, I decided to self-publish through Amazon’s Kindle store. (See here)

I’d love to know how other people cope with rejection mail. There must be more to it that the proverbial stiff upper lip.

For openers…

They say that the first line of a novel, short story, or any other work of literature for that matter, is crucially important. If you can’t grab the reader by the scruff of the neck right from the start, then there’s no point in going on. It’s a pity, because I’d be willing to bet that there are some really good novels out there – perhaps even The Great American Novel, that have never been read or published because the first few words were a let down. So what are some elements that a really good opening line has to have in order to pass the acid test of reader perseverance?
I decided to pick, at random, books that have been recognized as copper-bottom page-turners to see if there is a common theme.
From the New York Times bestseller list, McNally’s Dare, by Lawrence Sanders, begins: “I am lying facedown on the leather-padded massage table clad immodestly in my heather-gray briefs while a curvaceous masseuse in a rather abbreviated nurse’s uniform strokes by left hand, one finger at a time.” Here the hook is obviously sex. It targets the reader’s libido, curiosity and anticipation. Of course, if it turns out that nothing happens thereafter the reader is going to be slightly put out. But it does the trick.
Here’s the opening line of “See How They Run” by bestselling author James Patterson. “A benevolent midafternoon sun spattered golden streaks over the historic domes and needle spires, up and down the gray-yellow stones of the ancient Holy City walls.” This is less exciting but more evocative. There are enough adjectives in there for the reader to hope that the book is well-written. I reckon that James Patterson is successful enough not to go for shock tactics in the first sentence, but instead have readers rubbing their hands together in delight as they begin another bestseller. This opening sentence is more of a scene-setter.
Then there’s Stuart Woods’s “Orchid Beach”: “Holly Barker, with the rest of the crowd, was called to her feet as the panel of officers filed into the courtroom.” Again more scene setting, this time introducing a character. It whets the reader’s appetite for what happens next. Here he has gone in for grabbing the reader’s attention not so much in the first sentence as in the first paragraph or two. It’s a sign that the author has confidence; he knows the reader is not going to put the book down after reading the fairly ordinary first sentence. He’s got time to build interest.
Loren D. Estleman’s “Never Street” begins: “It was the summer of darkness.” Intriguing. What exactly does she mean by the paradoxical linking of the word “summer” with the word “darkness”. We want to give her a chance to explain.
“Bleeding Hearts” by Ian Rankin starts off: “She had just over three hours to live, and was sipping grapefruit juice and tonic in the hotel bar.” Cool. Another attention grabber. We are immediately alert. Who is this cool customer? What is she doing at the bar?
So, then, the only difference between the two styles is that on the one hand are authors who like to grab us from the get-go with the first sentence and others who are prepared to string it out over the first paragraph or two. Either way, whatever the novelist promises in the opening lines of a novel, they had better deliver. There is no point in writing a stunning opening line when the rest of the novel can be used as an antidote to insomnia.
So, now I come to think of it, what are my opening lines like? I just had to look.
My first novel, “Lab Rat“, begins: “The man slumped against Mill Flagdon’s main gate awoke with a conical heap of bat dung on his head.” Right. Okay. This had better be good.
The second, “Four Degrees“, starts off: “My brother Redford weighs 1,120lb.” Shock tactics.
My third, “Muscle for Hire” opens with: “The bouncer at the door was typical of the bouncer class.” No shock there. Maybe I’m gaining confidence that the reader will read on for a few sentences.
And my fourth, “The Blood Menagerie” kicks off: “Tate clambered over the garbage that was strewn beside the track.” Again, hoping the reader will read on for a few sentences, before deciding to buy the book.
So what can I glean from this hopelessly narrow sample?
1) The first sentence or two have to pique the reader’s interest.
2) Whatever you use as a hook, you have to deliver on in the course of the book.
3) You can’t have a long and winding sentence to start off with. No point in making the reader work hard from the outset. They’ll just put the book down and choose someone else’s.
4) The first sentence or two should set the scene for the opening action, and therefore should have all the elements the reader needs to picture the scene.
I’d be interested in hearing comments on what other qualities the opening sentence should have. Fire away.

Blood on the Forehead

The title of this blog comes from a quote from Gene Fowler:
“Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about Fowler:
“After a year at the University of Colorado, he took a job with The Denver Post. His assignments included an interview with frontiersman and Wild West Show promoter Buffalo Bill Cody. He established his trademark impertinence by questioning Cody about his many love affairs.”
Now you understand why he had blood on his forehead.

Writing is difficult – all that grammar and punctuation and stuff; is it really worth the bother?
Peter de Vries, a writer who joined the staff of the New Yorker in 1944 at the insistence of James Thurber, had this to say about being a writer:
“I love being a writer. What I can’t stand is the paperwork.”

It’s an interesting distinction: being a writer rather than writing. You have this image in your mind that you’re at a cocktail party (who has cocktail parties any more?) and someone asks you what you do for a living. “I’m a writer,” you say, trying to keep your voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “A writer?” they reply. “That’s interesting. Do you have anything published?” And that’s when the band of red appears on your neck and gradually works its way upward until your face is one huge blush. “Well, no,” you say and mutter something about having an agent considering your work, or having your work out to some publisher – the implication being that you’re just waiting on the contract being signed and the six figure advance being decided on.

Writing is not an easy option as a career. Getting published by a bricks-and-mortar publishing house is difficult enough, but the process of writing itself can often be appallingly difficult. Another way of putting it is: “I don’t like writing so much as having written.” There’s no doubt about it; writing for publication is not for the dabbler.

If you want to write well you have to prepare yourself for an ordeal. You don’t want editors to send your submissions back commenting, like the unnamed English Professor at Ohio University, “I am returning this otherwise good typing paper to you because someone has printed gibberish all over it and put your name at the top.”

So if writing is so difficult, what is it that keeps people doing it? Is it a way of separating ourselves from the herd? Do we do it for the fame? The fortune? Do we do it – and this is the kicker – because we actually have something to say that other people want to hear?

I don’t know the answer to these questions as well as I’d like. But I’m hoping to come closer to understanding what makes a writer tick, in the course of this blog.

(For a list of my books on Amazon see here)