Boys!

So my last few posts were a bit negative.  Today I decided to lighten up a bit by making a list of the boys I would most like to date from the YA novels I've read lately.

You know... if they actually existed.  AND if I were seventeen physically, instead of of just mentally.  And not married, of course.

So, here goes:

#5) Colt from the Secret Year. 
Why?  Because I can tell he's HOT.  Even his name is hot.  Why else would Julia have been so drawn to him?  And Syd, and Kirby?  I've read very few novels from the perspective of a male, and he scores points just for that.  Unfortunately, he seems a little lacking in ambition, and he has trouble with the "L" word.  That's why he's at the bottom of the list.

4) Sam from Shiver and Linger
A boy who plays guitar and thinks in song lyrics?  Um, yes please.  Oh yeah, and the shifting into a wolf thing is pretty sexy too.  Minus all the vomiting.  But to have that kind of adoration from a boy is the kind of thing every young girl dreams about.  Hence his existence in the pages of book, and not in the teenage world I lived in, damn it.

3) Tie: Edward and Jacob from Twilight
Technically I am die-hard team Jacob, and was long before Taylor Lautner and his abs brought the character to life.  But here's the devotion issue again... their love for Bella is so intense it's yes, quite cheesy.
But who would complain about being in the middle of that obsession sandwich?  Not me.  So if I don't have to pick, I'm not going to.

2) Peeta from the Hunger Games
He is so effing sweet.  Burning his family's bread knowing he would take a beating, just so Katniss could have something to eat?  I've actually teared up just thinking about it.  Enough said.

1) Shay from Nightshade
First of all, Andrea Cremer's description of his shirtless body is enough to render him my number one pick.  And he seems to be an utterly fantastic kisser.  AND he's smart, and well read, and yes there's the whole wolf thing again.  Guess I love me some wolf boys.  But honestly - though it's been quite a few years since I was in high school, I remember the hot/intelligent/sweet combo being a very difficult one to come by.  At least at that age.  ( Just an aside, my hubby embodies all three, thank you very much.)

So congrats, Shay.  I would have blushed furiously and avoided eye contact at all costs if we had gone to high school together.  And then you would have dated my friend(s).   

Now that I've proven just how immature I am, at least I'm smiling again.  Coming soon: the ones I would be least likely to date, and the accompanying word vomit of rationale behind it. ; )

Thank God no one reads this thing!  But if anyone does stop by, I would love to know your picks!

Peace & Quiet & Good Will Toward Men

I've come to the conclusion that all I want for Christmas is nothing to do.

I'm sure the things going on in my life are the culprit, but my Christmas spirit appears to have been hijacked this year.  I'm so busy concentrating on all the niggling details that I'm having a hard time remembering why I was such a Christmas junkie to begin with.  For example: my house is an absolute disaster because I've had no time to clean it.  And why?  Because two weekends ago my husband and I ventured off to Newport to see the mansions decorated for Christmas and to Boston for a relative's christening.  Last weekend, we got up bright and early and set out to make a dent in our Christmas shopping.

And talk about annoying.  I have this mania about finding everyone their perfect gift, and I was not feeling it that day.  The deals were nothing special, the Gap wouldn't let me use my coupon for sale items, and while trying to locate "the" gift in Express for my sister-in-law, all I could concentrate on was the throngs of screaming children outside the store waiting to have their picture taken with Santa. 

We left with a few more people scratched off the list, but far too many incomplete for my taste.  Then on Sunday I spent some long overdue time with my sister, and there went that weekend.  And this weekend?  I needed an oil change, we celebrated my sister-in-law's birthday, and... we went to get our tree.  I didn't even want a real tree this year.  I wanted to totally slum it and get a fake one, foregoing the needles all over my floors, the endless watering (and consequent spilling), and of course, my husband yelling because I'm not holding it straight enough while he's tightening the tree stand.  I admit being out at the tree farm made me feel slightly less grinch-y, and the tree is making my (filthy) house smell heavenly.

My plan today is try and tackle some of the mess, do more shopping online, and maybe get in some decorating and wrapping.  But I feel guilty about it, because I'll be missing the Mass dedicated to the ten year anniversary of my grandfather's passing.  I also don't know how much I'll actually accomplish, because I seem to be permanently exhausted.  It's probably hormonal, but it's like trying to function underwater.  And of course, tomorrow it's back to work.  That black hole that sucks up all your time and energy and doesn't care that you have a life outside its doors. 

Sound a little negative?  Yeah, told you so.  And this HIGHLY unusual for me, because I normally adore Christmas.  I'm one of the first people to send out my Christmas cards.  My souvenir from every vacation is always an ornament for my tree.  I host Christmas day at my house, and I love watching people open the gifts I've chosen for them even more than I enjoy opening my own.  And yes, my novel takes place around Christmas time, too.

But I suppose it's no surprise that there's a kink in my Christmas mojo this year.  Yet, if getting the tree yesterday cleared away the Grinch cloud for a bit, maybe decorating it today will ease a little more of my Bah Humbughood.  But just so you can see what I'm talking about, here are some photos.  Behold the mass of unwrapped gifts, totes of Christmas wrap and decorations, and general messines.  But the tree is pretty, isn't it?

One Piece of Crappy News at a Time, Please

So I went back to the doctor this morning and, just as we knew it probably would be, the sac was still empty.  It had gotten bigger, but alas, there was no bean-like thing sitting inside waiting to turn into a child. 

I am ok with it.  I knew what to expect and I had accepted the idea that this wasn't going to be a baby weeks ago.  Now the scary part, though.  Whereas my last miscarriage was futher along and ended with a D & C, this time they want it to happen naturally, if it can.  And that part terrifies me.  The doctor made it sound like no big deal, but he also told me the recovery time for my laparoscopic surgery was two days.

Um, no. 

Two days later I still couldn't stand up straight and had to go to work in sweatpants to accommodate the swelling.  I know he was probably trying to scare me as little as possible, but now I'm on to him and I'm leary.  Then again, plenty of women have gone through this and survived, so maybe it won't be as hellish and gory as I'm envisioning. 

Still, given the way the day started, I am avoiding my e-mail inbox like the plague.  I can handle one piece of bad news.  But put it together with more rejection and hand it to me in a big red bow, and I guarantee I will cry.  And I HATE crying.  It's not something I do very often, but it seems that once I start, any little thing sets me on fresh bender.  Do I really need to hear that I suck at conceiving AND suck at writing, all in the same day?  I think not.

Besides, I've been waiting since the end of October to hear back on two of those queries.  I can probably assume they are big fat R's by now, but what difference will it make to wait one more day?  Instead of bad news, I'll overindulge in something else.  Like maybe a good book ; ) 

In Your Face, Universe!

Another rejection popped up in my inbox today.  The exact response was, "Thank you for the query, but this does not sound like a project that is right for me."

That's it.  None of the usual lessen-the-blow mumbo jumbo about another agent may feel differently, etc. etc.  I'm starting to think another agent may not feel differently.  Which is especially disheartening, considering this newest rejection is coming on the heels of another devastating blow: I'm losing a second pregnancy.  My husband and I have been trying for two years to have a child, and after the first year we were thrilled when we conceived after a few routine tests.  But at the seven week ultrasound, it was clear things were not progressing normally.  The pregnancy ended at nine weeks with a D & C when it became obvious my body was not recognizing its error.  From there, difficulty conceiving started again.  One year, a new doctor, several tests, and a surgery later it was discovered I had both low progesterone levels and early stage endometriosis.  With the endometreosis lasered away and the progesterone being supplemented, my husband and I were confident my next pregnancy was both imminent and indestructible.

But, when I got pregnant this time, it was soon clear that I was going down a familiar path.  Any symptoms I had faded away very early on, and the hard little bump in my belly disappeared.  Sure enough, the ultrasound of what should have been a 7+ week fetus showed nothing but an empty sac.  I have to go back next week just to be certain, but I already know what to expect.

So, at this point, it's hard not to feel like a failure on all counts.  Pregnancy, which is so easily achieved by many, has eluded me for two years now.  There are no guarantees I will ever succeed.  And just as having not one but TWO miscarriages makes me question the viability of my dream of motherhood, all these rejections are bound to make me question the viability of my other dream: getting published. 

I can't let go of both dreams.

And I'm not giving up on either.

So, agents of the literary sort, be warned.  You will be hearing from me.  I will continue to query.  And damn it, one of you better stop telling me my project isn't right for you.  It's right for someone, and I will find you.  And beginning tomorrow, I'm forcing myself to continue writing the story I abandoned out of sheer lack of self confidence.  Neither baby nor book deal with be achieved if I give up.  So if the universe is determined to mess with me by sending down a hurricane of failure, fine.  I will stand right in the middle of it, and refuse to budge until I see the rainbow.

Here We Go Again

So of the four queries I was brave enough to put forth, I received my first form rejection today.  I wasn't surprised.  It was an agent I had already queried, back when the manuscript had 6000 more words and the query letter flat out sucked.  And even though I used my new and improved letter, my much more desirable word count, and even changed the title, the answer remained the same.  Oh well.  One down, three to go.  Or, it could be two down.  Unfortunately, one of the agents I queried, who I am really REALLY hoping to hear from, only responds on projects she's interested in.

I know agents think this is great, time-saving idea, but I HATE it.  Especially since this agent in particular doesn't give a time frame in which to assume she's passed on your project.  So, I have no idea if I should be holding out hope for a couple more weeks, or if the two that have passed are my death knell with her agency.  And while I do realize the volume of letters agents receive, is it really so hard to send out an automated rejection?  Silence just leaves me wondering if they ever received my e-mail in the first place.  And quite honestly, I put a LOT of work into my query letter, and would at least like some form of acknowledgement, even if it's a polite "no thanks".

So while my confidence is one again teetering after that dreaded e-mail this morning, I have to say it still beats silence.  At least I know the letter - the one that took me four months to write - was received and read, and worth the two seconds to push the rejection button.  And that's exactly my point: four months writing the book, four months writing the letter, countless hours revising.  I have to wonder if agents forget that an author's time is valuable, too.  Have a little respect for that SEND THE DAMN E-MAIL.

Silence, to me, just has this air of haughtiness to it.  Like your writing is so exceedingly unworthy it's not even fit for a response.  Most of us have been dreaming about this since we were old enough to string cohesive sentences together, and if you're going to dash our dreams, at least do it in a polite and semi-encouraging manner.

Geez... Perhaps I hate the silent rejection a little more than I realized.  So I suppose what I'm really trying to do is thank the agent who rejected me this morning, because at least she had the consideration to do so.  And while it truly is discouraging each time someone tells you they're not the "right fit" for you, most of them will remind you that another agent may feel differently.  And right now, I am not giving up hope that I will find that person.  So, off I go to send more queries into the world.

Confidence = Creativity

I'm finding that my ability and my desire to write lately is directly linked to my self confidence.  And at this point, pickin's are slim.  When I was inspired to write my first book, I wrote a little bit every day.  I heard conversations in my head constantly.  I was so determined to get the words down on the page that I finished in what I thought was damn good time.  Right after that, I created an outline of another story based on two smaller characters from the first.  I've written a good portion of it, and have a pretty good idea of what the unwritten portions will entail.  But the newest idea that presented itself has been a bit of a challenge.  I know it's a good concept.  I know I can make it an enjoyable read.  But given my e-mail inbox has been utterly silent since my re-entry to the world of querying (I know, a whopping 13 days ago), I can't help feeling like I might be wasting my time.  It doesn't seem wise to spend all this time nurturing these babies when I have a full time job, a house, a husband, and a lot of other things going on.  My dream is to devote myself to a writing career, but how do I know if I'm good enough? 

Now, when I start to write I'm finding myself staring blankly at the screen.  The concept that spun through my head like a whirlwind a few weeks ago has been disconcertingly quiet since.  I'm not obsessing over how to fill in the plot holes.  I'm not hearing witty banter in my head.  And it isn't because I don't want to write the story.  I just want to know I'm not wasting my time doing it.  Especially since the story in question is a prequel to the book I'm currently querying.  If I can't garner interest in that one, the other two are pretty much a done deal.  And not in a book deal sort of way. 

I need some positive feedback to feed my creativity!  This sucks!   

New & Improved

So just days after my last, somewhat rant-ish post, I discovered the correct label for my college girls on Janet Reid's Query Shark site: they are NEW adults! 

Somehow, this is much easier for me to accept than plain old adults.  I'm slowly loosening my desperate grasp on the YA label.  If they're NEW adults, they're still allowed to make mistakes.  Anyone who is new at anything is practically EXPECTED to make mistakes!  So that means they're allowed to think like their former selves- the people they were before they crossed that invisible line from an 18 year old YA to a nineteen and beyond  NA.

Of course, the term doesn't appear in either of the two queries I sent out last week.  But I do mention one of the girls is a college student in the body of my letter.  Hopefully, that's good enough.  I'm really hoping for some positive feedback with this round of queries, and then maybe I'll even tell my mother or my sister I've written a book.  Thus far, only four people on the planet know.  I just don't want everyone and their mother (or my mother) to be aware of my failure, if that's what this becomes.  There's nothing like trying to do what you love, only to be shut down again and again.  It's a real boost to the old self-esteem (not).  But then again, if I succeed... I'll know I've done it without any one holding my hand.  And isn't standing on your two feet, regardless of the outcome, all part of being an adult anyway?