Adventures in Querying: Where is the Chubby Hubby Ice Cream When You Need It?

Ben and Jerry's has the most amazing flavor of ice cream called Chubby Hubby. It is a single pint of decadent saturate-your-sorrows in 35 grams of sinful artery-clogging saturated fat and it's-probably-better-if-you-don't-read-the-rest-of-the-nutritional-information yum-inny goodness.

For several years, it was my favorite fallback when things weren't going so well. Call it depression's best friend and my waistline's worst enemy. I could easily eat a pint (or two) all by myself when I was upset. After today's twenty-ninth check of my author email, it is perhaps advantageous for my britches and my overall general health that Chubby Hubby is no longer available in my area.

I just received another rejection for another query letter of my newest book. I know you might be saying "Big whoop....someone else said no to you.....move on." Believe me, I get the sentiment. I tried that approach for about five minutes as I wrote my Thank You letter to the kind assistant who sent the rejection letter on behalf of the oh-so-busy agent. But after I hit the 'Send' button, it hit me. This rejection letter was yet another paving stone in the road of this journey of mine that has been my entire life in the making.

<Sound the dramatic music now, if you please....>

I have read enough blogs over the years to know that most writers are CONVINCED they were destined to be a writer ever since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. Right after they unplugged from their mother's nipple and moved onto solid foods, they picked up the pen and began the path to their future career. At that point, I was still dragging around my bangy (blanket), believing the Cookie Monster was a real person, but what the hey. I was a kid.

As far as my grasp on my future grown-up career, I couldn't say with any level of certainty that I knew what I wanted to be in my adult years as I was learning my A-B-C's and delving into the wonders of easy arithmetic. I was pretty much all over the map with my career options up until just a few years ago.

My aspirations for the future began with marine biology, slid into mathematics, dallied in the arts, and a million other possibilities as I explored the world. I even contemplated becoming a mermaid once, but I heard the pay was appalling and the benefits mere fish food.

The point is, making grown up decisions when you are a kid, especially decisions that affect the rest of your life was neigh impossible. I was impressionable and was tossed around by the winds of other's influence. What I should want for my future and what I was allowed to dream for myself was invariably tainted by the pressures of those around me. Writing - as in being a writer - wasn't even a blip on my horizon.

It didn't matter that I loved it or that I pursued it all the time in the shadows of everything else that swam within the margins of my conscious brain. It wasn't considered a "responsible career." I allowed myself to be pushed in other directions.

All the while I was poking at the possibilities that the future had to offer me, in the background of my uncertainty and throughout my endless exploration of life, I wrote. Stories, poems, ditties. Some were good. Some were not.

Regardless of the quality, everything I did, everything I wrote, had a vast daydream lurking behind it. Even as I pursued the hard sciences and pushed my intellect the brink of utter overload, I brought imaginary worlds into being and hid their existence in the notebooks and papers that littered my bedroom, my car, my backpack, and sometimes the napkins that were my only source of paper. My dreams were my playground and my solace.

I craved those worlds and the promise they offered. I read voraciously, further stimulating the imagination that ran unchecked in my untamed mind. Never once do I remember consciously thinking "I am a writer" or "I want to be a writer when I grow up." Writing was something I simply could not help but do whenever and wherever possible.

In fact, I had teachers, faculty, and friends telling me writing wasn't my thing when they saw me scribbling in my notebooks. I was anything but a writer. So I made sure to write when no one was looking. The thing was, writing was inescapable. Like a fungus on wet, socked feet.

It was like a wooing lover that would not relent its sway over me, until finally, one day the truth dawned on me. I was the little writing crack whore who only felt satiated with a pen and paper in her hand. I could only find that sense of completeness and accomplishment when I was immersed in the written word. It was my burning desire. Let other people embrace the rat race and the corporate ladder.

World building. That was my utopia. It had only taken me my entire life to come to that understanding about myself.

Now back to Chubby Hubby and the consummate 'no'.

I realize that every writer has to make their bones, and usually the road to doing that is paved with rejection after rejection. The platitude is always tossed about that writers need to have a thick skin. While that may be true, part of me says even rhinos with their thick, plated skin can be killed so thick skin alone isn't so great a defense. Having "thick skin" suggests you are not allowed to feel bad when bad things happen, and that is a load of crap. That is how people end up leaping off of buildings....because they believe they have to "handle things" in silence and put on a brave face when they are feeling anything but brave.

Rejection hurts. It's why there are so many songs dedicated to the subject. The best way to deal with it (in my humble opinion) is first, to be honest about it. It sucks. Pretending that it doesn't isn't helpful. Next, have a great group of people who can be there to support you when the rejection happens. I am not talking about people who will tell you to stop feeling what you are feeling, and I am not talking about people who will help you wallow deeper in the sorrow than you would on your own. I am talking about level-headed friends and/or family who will listen and then help you see that the light at the end of the tunnel is hope and not an on-coming train.

For me, it was my family. My mom is a Chicken Soup For the Soul contributing author who has seen her share of triumphs and disappointments in her admirable writing career. My dad is a fellow writer and my faithful morning writing partner who has seen me through many a dry spell. And then there is my sister who is a brilliant blogger and all around great friend. They were all there to lift me out of my Chubby Hubby fog and set me back on my feet again. And let me not forget my faithful little pommies who know that sometimes puppy kisses really are the best medicine.

Whatever you do in this crazy race, don't do it alone, friends, and don't give up. Yes, it is hard. Falling on your fanny sucks, but luckily, fannies are padded so bouncing back from a fall is not as hard as you might think when you have helping hands to lift you up.

A great story will get you far. Perseverance will get you farther. See you at the finish line.

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If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to connect with H.L. Stephens on Google+, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter. Also check out H.L. Stephen's mystery series The Chronicles of Mister Marmee. Book 1 - The Case of Jack the Nipper and book 2 - The Case of the Wayward Fae are available in print and eBook format at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other online retailers. Coming Soon! Book 3 - The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune.

When Being 'A Day Late and a Dollar Short' Ceases To Capture How Far Behind You Are

I used to love the phrase when I was a kid.

"A day late and a dollar short"

It seemed so jingly. So fun. So easy to catch up to if you just tried hard enough. After all, it was only a day and a dollar. How hard could it be?

Well, I am no longer a kid and that jingly tongue delighting phrase holds new meaning for me now that I know just how far behind you can get in this world and how many chances can pass you by without you even realizing it.

I am coming to the publishing game a little later in life than I wish I had. I am by no means Grandma Moses in age, but there are still times when I wish I had "found myself" a little closer to twenty than forty. But life is funny that way, and things worked out differently, so I am adapting and reveling in what I consider my second chance at a happy ending. The thing is, the journey there can be difficult. Just take a look at fairy tales. They are fraught with sticky predicaments and missed opportunities. How many times have you wanted to bop the hero in the back of the head because he or she missed their chance time and time again? Thankfully it always works out in the end, and that is what I strive for. That happy ending. I still, however, am marveling at my missed moments along the way.

Fun example...........

Few major publishers are accepting unsolicited work these days. One must have an agent or face the unending wall of defeat of ever getting published by the big-name publishers. Every so often, though, they relent and open the doors to all hopefuls and allow a stream of submissions without an agent presenting them.

In 2013, Tor Books UK opened their doors in just such a manner. It was unprecedented. This past May (2015 mind you), I happened upon the Tor blog post that announced their brave move. Of course seeing the date on the post, I scoured for any caveat announcing the closure of said opening. Surely to goodness after such a long time, they would not still be allowing such a flood of submissions. Try as I might, I could find nothing on their blog retracting the offer.

I was elated! I had just finished my first full fantasy novel and was starting the edit. I worked and worked to get it polished and was just getting ready to send it to an editor for their review. My hands were tingly with anticipation. I knew I would have to wait 4-6 months before submitting it anywhere else, but this was Tor after all. I couldn't help myself. I went back to the blog post to re-read what had been my beacon of hope for so long.

And there is was........the caveat that wasn't there before. How had I missed it? I had looked. I had read and re-read. I could hear the WHAA-WHAA that all losers hear when they miss out. The sad part is, Tor had closed the door to submissions four months before I found their post. So much for being a day late and a dollar short. I was four months late, and there was no catching up to that one.

This was not the first time that I have found myself in the sad, sad place of discovering just how late to the game I am. There have been other missed opportunities like the writing competition where the benefactor died two months before the winner could be announced. Yes, that competition was ended, and no winner was announced, and no.....it is way too depressing and rich to make up. There are others, which I won't enumerate, but what I will say is this.

Sad or not. Ridiculously naive or not, I find myself undaunted by these missed chances. Why? Because at some point, in my modest little hopes and dreams, I think it is possible to catch up. Eventually, I will have a story ready, and I will be there when the window is open and ready. I will be there to submit, and maybe, just maybe, I will be one of the lucky bastards who are chosen to go to the next level. Maybe I will barrage them with the plethora of stories that I will have written and edited waiting for "next time" to roll around. Who knows.

The point is, the race is not always won by the fast runners or even the strong runners, but by the ones who persevere. Sometimes that means us slow pokes that start at the back of the crowd. The ones who keep plodding along, sweating like pigs with red, shiny faces. Graceless though we may appear to be, we keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Yes, I was disappointed by the Tor Books UK discovery. I so wanted to submit to them, but it is not the end of the world, and it certainly is not the only opportunity I will ever have. It just wasn't my time, and I obviously wasn't ready. I am keeping the faith, and in the meantime, I am writing.

There is another phrase I have grown to love as I have gotten older.

Never give up. Never surrender. Whether you are coming to the game early or late, it is a good motto to have because life can knock you on your assets at any stage of the game. You just have to decide whether you have it within yourself to get back up on your feet, wipe off the dust, and get back in there, or give up altogether and walk away for good. I have seen a lot of writers take the second path. I guess I am just a bit too stubborn to know when to give up. Here's hoping you are too.

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If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to connect with H.L. Stephens on Google+, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter. Also check out H.L. Stephen's mystery series The Chronicles of Mister Marmee. Book 1 - The Case of Jack the Nipper and book 2 - The Case of the Wayward Fae are available in print and eBook format. Coming Soon! Book 3 - The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune.

Adventures in Querying: Receiving the First of Many Bloody Noses

We've all had that dream. No, I am not talking about the dirty bathroom dream where all of the stalls make the use of an outhouse at the yearly fair seem like a delightful prospect. Nor am I referring to the dream where you are walking naked through your old high school during peak rush hour and you can't seem to find your locker. I am talking about the dream so many writers have about sending out their first query letter. It usually goes something like this.

You send out the letter to the big-wig agent. (It is of course your first attempt.) They read it and immediately call you up and offer a billion dollar contract for your stupendous piece of literary art. You, without hesitation, accept the outrageous offer and within months find yourself on the set of the movie adaptation of your book. Okay, so the dream might vary a smidge for some, but the concept is pretty much the same. There are no disappointments, and there are certainly no bubble deflating rejections.

We writers want to be heard. We want an audience for our stories. The problem is, there is a universe of noise that stands between us and the people we so long to connect with. For many, the agent is the one who helps us navigate through the rivers of crap. The hard part is finding someone willing to take the risk on our work, and timing is everything.

Cold, hard reality check in 3, 2, 1...........

Unfortunately, none of us are clairvoyant. We can't know what the "right time" is for the agent we hope is the "right fit". Oh sure, there is that lucky writer soul that comes along and strikes at the perfect moment just after morning coffee but before the bran muffin hits in all its unforgiving glory. Just like there are people who get record deals because the executive happens to hear them singing in the bathroom stall right next to them. (I am so NOT that person.)

The reality for the rest of us is that luck like that doesn't exist. We have to work our butts off to get noticed. We have to jump up and down, find the right words, and sometimes make asses of ourselves to get any attention. And sometimes that means we are going to get punched in the nose for our efforts at some point in time.

The other night I got one of my bloody noses. Its not really the first bloody nose I have received, and I sure as heck know it won't be my last. It still stung. My heart still hurt a little. My eyes got teary, and for a moment...just a brief little moment, I felt bad about the blow.

I got the email late at night - sent at 10:21 p.m. I was up reading someone else's book on my e-reader when the notice came in. I should have left the email for the morning when I would have been more equipped to handle what I had read. The thing was <true confessions here>, I had been waiting and hoping for weeks, so my curiosity got the best of me. The next thing I knew, my face was bloodied, and I found myself sitting up in the middle of the night wondering what I had done wrong.

The letter wasn't particularly bad, but it wasn't particular good either. It read much like what you would expect from someone returning an entrée they weren't satisfied with. I don't think I will forget the line I am afraid I will be passing. I could almost see the crinkle of distaste in the agent's lip. I have said the same thing after finding a hair in a dish. No thanks, I think I'll pass.

Needless to say, it took me a while to get to sleep. I had to staunch the blood flow before my head hit the pillow. I knew I wasn't going to bleed to death, but when you get hit with disappointment after such high hopes, it is easy for things to spiral out of control, especially in the middle of night. I grabbed my Kleenex, and I started thinking.

The story I am trying to sell is different from the current market stream. There are no vampires, werewolves, or zombies. There is no magic in the story at all. Just a gritty teenager and a really bad ass story with a lot of heart. (Gotta defend the story here folks. Bear with me.) My point is, sometimes "different" isn't what people are looking for. Some of the biggest names in the business got turned down when they first sent out their queries. Their big breaks came during chance encounters at writers' conventions after being turned down time and time again. Or it came when they ditched convention and self-published. So the query letter isn't always a guaranteed win.

So where does that leave me? You might think right where I was before I sent out my letter, but you would be wrong if you took that path of assumption. In truth, I am better off than I was before I hit the send button on my computer. Yes I got a little banged up, but the truth of the matter is, I believed enough in myself and my writing to take a risk. I received a 'no' from the agent, but that doesn't mean it is the last time that agent will ever hear from me. As a matter of fact, sometimes being gracious and a bit tenacious is the best response in the face of a rejection.

The very first thing I did was send a 'thank you' note to the agent while the tears were fresh. That person did after all take the time to read through the stuff that I sent out. Courtesy is quickly becoming a lost art, so a positive response on my part certainly can't hurt. It might even make a lasting impression.

I have a choice in all of this. I can either curl up into a tiny ball and cry until my tear ducts swell shut and cease working, or I can be like the badger dog and hold on for dear life. I like badger dogs. They are tenacious, and they don't give up. It is how they survive. After all, badgers are mean, and they take no prisoners. The realm of publishing that I have stepped into is a lot like the badger....mean and unforgiving sometimes....or so I have heard. I have to find a way to survive as I follow this path to my dreams.

So here's to bloody noses, however many I receive, and here is to never giving up as I count my blows. One of my favorite authors, who has been a great encouragement to me, received over fifty rejections before his first book was picked up. That's a lot of Kleenex. Guess I better go buy a few more boxes because I am in for the long haul. See you around folks!

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If you enjoyed this post, don't forget to connect with H.L. Stephens on Google+, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter. Also check out H.L. Stephen's mystery series The Chronicles of Mister Marmee. Book 1 - The Case of Jack the Nipper and book 2 - The Case of the Wayward Fae are available in print and eBook format. Coming Soon! Book 3 - The Case of the Monkey's Misfortune.

The Lonely Art of Writing - Baubles and Villains and Things

I often hear people say that writing is a lonely art. I suppose that to some extent it is true. Only one person can hold the pen or type at the keyboard at a time, but writers are never truly alone. We carry a community of people with us wherever we go. For some of us, entire planets or solar systems are toted around like decorative baubles that bump around in our brains. They are not heavy burdens – these communities, planets, and solar systems. They are the material from which we spin our tales. If you know a writer, chances are you have or will appear in some article, novelette, or tome they have created. It is an inescapable reality. Not even strangers are immune from being collected and catalogued by the writer’s gray matter. Sometimes strangers are the most fun to collect, with their unconscious eccentricities and mannerisms. I have whiled away many an afternoon observing the people around me. It matters little whether I am at the mall, pumping gas, or grabbing coffee at the local coffee house. Each place has their gems. Most people are so intent on ignoring you, they fail to realize they have been captured. If I had a camera, I would not be quite as successful as I am. People tend to become very irate when you take their picture without permission. My camera is just as visible as one of those giant black machines with the obscenely large telephoto lens. The only difference is that my camera is comprised of my eyes, ears, and nose; connected together by the giant data collection system of my brain.

With as much as I love to collect the oddities in human nature, I am often forced to look to those closest to me for the meat of any solid character I desire to create. I can easily describe the physical appearance of the person standing in front of me at the grocery store and transform them into a troll or some other fanciful creation. I cannot, however, share that person’s soul with you and make it sound anything but contrived. I must look to those with whom I have a more intimate connection and borrow a smidgen of their essence to bring my characters to life. The warmth of an embrace; the look which says more than any words could capture; the turn of a mischievous smile and the gentle heart behind it - they are all elements which can be taken from my experiences with those people I know and love. When a tale must take a darker, more sinister turn, I still look to those closest to me once again.

As a writer, I have a saying - ‘keep your friends close and your friends’ enemies even closer’. For every sorrow caused by another’s cruelty, whether perpetuated upon me or upon someone I hold dear, I find an unending source of emotion and inspiration to pull from when conflict is needed or when a scoundrel must be introduced (or done away with). Although I try never to stay long within that dark, emotional embrace, it is a powerful source of inspiration to use. As a writer of crime and mystery novels, I can attest I have metaphorically dispatched many an enemy who was the source of such pain for me or someone close to me. So for the world at large, I give this bit of free advice. Try not to rankle the writer in your life lest you find yourself the archetype for every villain from here to eternity. Take comfort though. Love, loyalty, and friendship are just as faithfully rewarded.