The Business of Writing

Every Sunday, you'll find me curled up on my IKEA chaise lounge, coffee in hand, perusing the Providence Journal. 

Naturally, as I hail from the smallest state, there's a fair chance I'll spy someone I know. And for some reason lately, the familiar faces have been popping up in the Business section. This is where I discover fun facts like:  a kid who rode my school bus is now running a nursing home.

No envy here. 

In fact, I'm eternally grateful I've picked a career where headshots in sensible navy suits are not a requirement. I'm a writer. You know, a creative. Free of all stuffy constraints.

Or so I thought. Until I realized not only am I courting the business world, I am, gulp, at the mercy of it. 

Blame Settling Down. My finished, unagented manuscript.

The background, in case you're joining the story already in progress. I wrote a book. A good book. A funny, smart, intelligent, accessible read that I KNOW would entertain a woman or two, as well as make a difference in their lives.

When I first shopped it around in 2006, it wasn't a good book. Sure, it was a great first attempt. An okay book. But oddly enough, not only did I have a fair amount of interest in this okay book. I was actually offered representation. (Until the agent changed her mind. Note: She's no longer in the business.) 

Soul crushing? Yes. But also an amazing gift. Because the book needed work. And sending that out as my final product into the world would have reflected poorly on me. My literary career would have been one and done.

Round one of the agent search also left me with offers from multiple agents willing to take a second look at this okay book, if I opted for professional editing. So I did, eventually rewriting the book, then beginning round two of operation agent query. 

You know, because it's such an amazing way to pass the time.

So far, I've got a full and a partial out in the world. Not bad for the percentage of query letters I sent out, but my much improved book has not garnered anywhere near the amount of attention as the unedited version. 

In other words: Better product. Less interest.

Logically, it doesn't make a bit of sense. Today, I also have more writing clips. I've got a website. I tweet! So what gives?

I'm thinking it's just business, baby.

My latest epiphany came from this paragraph of a recently received rejection letter:

I'm sorry to say that the project just isn't a perfect fit with my current needs. This has less to do with your strengths as a writer and more to do with my goals as an agent and the trends of the current literary marketplace.

So, basically, if writing wasn't hard enough, now you've got to consider the market. Because while agents are certainly lovers of books and promoters of the written word, they're also fans of eating. And paying their bills.

Sure it may start with a book, but I believe their primary role lines up closer to sales, where they carefully try to balance their own passions with what the publishing houses think the public is going to buy next. My genre? Popularly thought to have peaked ten years ago, even though I respectfully, and vehemently, disagree.

Duh. And why did it take me so long to figure this out?

Also: IT IS NOT MY TALENT!! (Sorry. Little pep talk here that you walked into.)

I know this little ah-ha moment is going to power me through this marathon. I don't give up easily. Okay. At all.

And in the short run, I've ordered this, to aid with my focus. 

What I'll be drinking from it? My secret. Just know that eventually, I WILL use it to toast my publishing contract.

Please. Just drop me an F-bomb already.

Last weekend, the wallpapering experts arrived to officially wrap the home-decorating saga, years in the making.

Those grossly elevated prices of wallpaper? Apparently, not my imagination. Our new pal explained how the industry had hurt consumers, as well as his small business of thirty-five years, by increasing the price of paper AND shortening the rolls. 

Understandably, he was irritated. Mid-rant, the unthinkable happened. He slipped in a word for emphasis that, apparently, he normally wouldn't have used in the presence of a lady.

 (Um, that would be me.) 

I wasn't recording the conversation, but I'm thinking it was along the lines 'screwed'. 

Our expert, clearly embarrassed, began apologizing profusely, before my husband swiftly stepped in, responding, "Oh, that's okay. She's a sailor."

Thanks, honey. 

But once again, Andre does speak the truth. As well, as inadvertently revealing the fastest way to my heart. 

Yup. Swear. In front of me.

Naturally, there are some guidelines. I'm not hip with a casual FU, or anything else tossed off the cuff in the heat of the moment, for the sole purpose of getting a rise. 

Pfft. Way too unimaginative. 

Nope. I'm way more into the thinking kind of profanity. Those stream of conscious tirades where unspeakables flow from impassioned conversation, eventually getting thrown down as an overenthusiastic adverb, instead of a verb. 

That. I dig.

But let's be clear. It's not the dirty words that gets me fired up; it's the animated devotion to whatever cause that inspired it in the first place. And major bonus points for the fact that the speaker is comfortable enough with me--AND themselves--to engage in this taboo-est of talk in the first place. 

So go ahead. Drop me an F-bomb or two.

There's plenty of room in the boat.

These Shoes Were Made For Walkin'

I never really thought much about my relationship with the UPS man.

I order things. He delivers. Pretty cut and dry really. But then he started messin' with my shoes.

In my advanced age, my feet have become increasingly more temperamental. Yet, I refuse, REFUSE, to go the traditional route of the American white sneaker. Contrary to popular belief, they do not go with everything. My solution? Bargain shopping stylish shoes on-line that are, gulp, given a seal of acceptance by the American Podiatric Medical Association.

Thank God they exist. And they arrive at my house on the creep. That's usually the easy part.

Granted, in the two years we've lived here, two things we were anticipating were never delivered: a pouch of prescription drugs (hope those water pills provided you with an outstanding high) and a pair of costume clip-on earrings. But in both instances, there was no proof of delivery, so replacements were issued immediately.

We've since smartened up, placing a vintage milk tin at the side door for the smaller stuff, which consequently makes us appear to be the only folks in the 'hood receiving a fresh milk delivery, as well as obsessively tracking the packages so we know which day to expect them.

My new shoes? The tracking status claimed they were delivered to the rear entrance. Now that's odd, because our UPS man du jour, while parked outside our house at the time that delivery was recorded, didn't exit the truck. I was watching. I know how this can go. So I called the on-line vendor, who launched the UPS investigation.

Such a serious term for a lost pair of sandals.

And thus began my intensive UPS education, where I learned, thanks to my new, slightly combative, pal at the national customer service center, that an investigation for a lost package takes 1-8 business days. During this time, not one, but two members of the UPS team, first national, then local, call to make sure you haven't somehow recovered your lost package, next to hypodermic needles in a weed filled lot.

I also learned that the UPS drivers have a whole lot of power. If no signature is required, they have the discretion to leave your box. Ho-hum. But much more disturbing: if a signature is required, they can use their authority to approach a neighbor, any neighbor, and ask them to sign for your package.

Say what?! Indeed, I trust my neighbor across the street, he's from Kansas after all, but I couldn't believe UPS asked him to sign for my new computer if I didn't come to the door.

Yup. All in the very same week.

As my shoe investigation entered its second week, the national office said the next step would be for the driver to return to the scene to see if he could remember where he left the package.

LOL indeed.

Two days later, the local office told me they'd be happy to close out the investigation, and refund my money, because it appears that someone is following said UPS driver around the neighborhood and stealing packages. Clearly, this must be one really quick thief. So quick, that I almost wonder if they hitched a ride on the truck. You know, on the back bumper or something.

So Brown, now that my case is officially closed what can you do for me? I'm so glad you asked.

1. Stop giving your full support to clearly incompetent drivers and/or scammers. 2. Consider that all of those boxes you are processing everyday actually have something in them--that the receiving party would like to see, instead of being obsessed with just the sheer volume of movement and the money that goes with it. 3. Work on getting someone cute to do my route, 'cause if we're going to be brushing hands over the delivery pad, seeing that my address now requires a John Hancock, it might as well be slightly enjoyable.

 And then all might be forgiven.