Share this:

Today's mail.

My mailbox is terrifying.

I find myself sitting in my car everyday after work, trying to avoid taking the key out of the ignition, hopping out of the driver’s seat and walking to the mailbox to see what it has in store for me. Yeah, sure, the bills suck, but the real concern is the small white envelopes that bear my address in my own handwriting. Today I received two of them. And I knew it couldn’t be good news.

Last month, I sent out a total of 17 query packets — about half of those packets were sent to agents via e-mail and the other half were sent via snail mail. In the five or so weeks since I sent them out into the atmosphere, I’ve heard back from almost every single agent. All but two have been flat rejections, including the two I received today. I’m really trying to not take it personally because, honestly, the odds are stacked against me. Everything I read and everyone I talk to tells me that that’s just the way it is. An infinite number of rejections and hopefully someday an acceptance.

And I can handle that. After all, the book is about a protagonist who continues to put herself out there in the online dating scene, only to fail time and again. But Max doesn’t give up, because she’s strong and stubborn. And I’m not going to give up either.

Still, Max wasn’t completely immune to the pain of a crushed ego — especially when it’s crushed over and over again — and neither am I. I make a very solid effort to let each rejection letter roll off my back and take a deep breath. But most times it’s more a sigh than a calming inhale.

Earlier this month, a really great agency asked me for a two-week exclusive — which basically means they wanted 14 days to review my entire manuscript, during which time I promised not to shop it out elsewhere — and I thought I was going to die of happiness. For the first day. Then came the second day. And the third, and all the others afterward. As time ticked away and the two-week deadline neared, I found myself staying up at night, wondering what the agent was going to say. I re-read the draft I’d sent, found a million stupid mistakes, and mentally flogged myself for being too impatient to iron it out more before sending it on. Finally, two weeks came to an end.

I wanted to email them the second the clock hit 12:01 a.m. that Tuesday, but I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And that Friday I emailed to say I’d had interest from another agency (which is true, they’re reviewing it right now, though they didn’t ask for exclusive access), and asked whether they needed more time. They told me to go ahead and send it out to the other agency. They were still reviewing it, but didn’t need to be exclusive any more.

I’ve been dumped enough times to know that’s the beginning of a break up. See other people? No! I don’t want to see other people! I want to see you! You’re the one for me! You’re the best agency ever, according to Google searches and the perfect version of you I’ve constructed in my mind. You and me, we’ve got a nice house by the shore and a white picket fence coming at us in the future, how do you not see that?

Three days letter, the break up was official. It wasn’t me. It was them:

Thanks again for your patience and for your interest in [agency redacted]. We wanted to give your manuscript a proper review and we feel you have a well-written and fun manuscript. Unfortunately, we don’t feel it’s quite right for our agency. As you know this is a very subjective business and as you’ve already received interest from other agents, we have no doubt you will be able to find enthusiastic representation for your novel. We wish you the best of luck in your writing career!

At least it seems like they still want to be friends.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my protagonist, it’s that giving up just isn’t an option. And while it can be a bummer at the bottom, it’s the contrast between the bad days and the good that make you appreciate when true bliss comes around. I just hope it comes around soon – in a tiny white envelope bearing my address in my own handwriting.

Share this:

Mama getting strapped onto the tow truck this afternoon.

I was making really excellent time. Between waking up early and taking a new shortcut between Auntie M’s and the highway, I was going to make it back to Westport twenty minutes earlier than I’d originally planned, giving me time to take a nice, hot shower and do some final editing before my two o’clock play rehearsal. I was racing a bit;  I wanted to give a final read through and enter some minor changes into my manuscript before the work week began.

Then I heard this weird sound. It was a tapping. Or a clicking. Clicking is more accurate. My car began to sound like a clock, being wound manually through its back side. I pulled my foot off the gas pedal, and the sound stopped for a moment. I sighed. Just a weird quirk, I told myself. And my car is more than entitled to have quirky moments every once in a while. Especially today, less than an hour after she’d hit 212,000 miles.

But then the clock sound started again. Soon, I could hear it over the music. It went from the sound of someone winding a clock to the sound of a car winding down. And a moment later, I was on the side of the road, staring at a green sign with the numbers “74” painted in white. My car had made her last sound.

My car, for those who don’t know, is very important to me. Her name is Big Mama, and I’ve had her since about a month after my mom passed away. Mama was my mother’s before she became mine, and for months after Mom died, I would drive with the windows up so I could retain the smell of my mother in the car’s upholstery. I talked to that car every day. I’d call her my “pretty girl.” She moved me from Syracuse to Alabama, then to Pennsylvania, then home to Knox and down to Connecticut.

When I first began building a new life in Connecticut a little more than two years ago, after a more-than-devastating breakup, I sometimes felt like that car was my only friend. She didn’t smell like Mom any more, but she was still a safety blanket. No. She’s not snazzy; Mama’s a 15-year-old station wagon with more rust spots than I have freckles in the summertime. But that car had heart.

I called a tow truck company today, maintaining my composure as I told him the situation. But when I hung up the phone, I realized that this was more than a bump in the road. I was going to have to say goodbye to my pretty girl. I called my father, who told me to start thinking about what kind of car I’d be buying in the next few days. He told me Mama will likely be heading to a scrap yard, and I should start gathering all my personal things. I’d have to pull them out of there today.

So I did. I climbed over my seat to the passenger’s side and out the door, walking around to the back seat, so I could begin to rummage through the various items I have in my car. And I cried. Oh my Lord, I cried. It’s not a pretty thing to admit, because I know I was being completely overdramatic, but I fired up Adele’s Something Like You on my iPhone and began blasting it through Mama’s speakers as I tossed shoes into a shopping bag and old Dunkin’ Donuts receipts and other garbage into another.

Never mind, I’ll find someone like you.

I wish nothing but the best for you too.

Don’t forget me, I begged, remember you said

Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts too.

I know. It’s the most cliché thing to cry to these days. But I wept. I wept on a snow-dusted patch of grass on the shoulder of the Thruway, as I came to the realization that I will probably never sit in that passenger’s seat again. I’ll be in something shinier, but it won’t be the same. It won’t be Mama.

The tow truck driver came and dropped me off at a diner (that’s where I am right now, writing this — though there’s no internet, so I’ll likely upload it from home later). I have four bags with me, carrying my manuscript, laptop, a sweater and clothes from the weekend, and the hostess couldn’t understand that I wanted a table for one. She kept asking, “Two? Two? You mean two?”

No. I mean one. I’m having a lousy day, Ma’am. I just said goodbye to my car, who is really a friend. I’m in the middle of nowhere, somewhere near New Paltz, when I should be nearing the Connecticut border. I’m not going to make rehearsal today. My boyfriend — God bless him, he really is the best and I don’t know what I’d do without the poor guy; he never fails to do whatever it takes to be there for me — is on his way to get me, but the battery in his car died last night, so he’s waiting for a jump in downtown Stamford first. I’m not going to finish polishing my book today. Instead of working on grammar and punctuation at the Library, I’m here. And it’s just me, Ma’am. Just me. A table for one.

Just let me be. Let me sit here and cry. Let me hide my puffy eyes from all these people who won’t stop staring at me. Let me ignore the fact that this would make a perfect country music song. Let me just think, and let me absorb. Let me write so I can wrap my mind around this. Let me realize that this car is not my mother and this day is not a second funeral. Let me have an hour-and-a-half in a booth, where I can forget that I’m unshowered and wearing a sweater covered in fur from Dad’s dog. Let me tell myself this is not a new low, and that SMB will be here soon and he will kiss my forehead and tell me to stop worrying, because we’ll figure it out. Let me delete that damn Adele song off my iTunes account.

Let me be. Let me write. And then everything will be okay.

Share this:

We have some minor differences of opinion...

Poor SMB.

I sort of panicked this weekend when I realized I was running out of time to meet my self-imposed deadline for getting together my query packets. So after editing everything on paper, I started entering all those changes into my computer. But I can’t trust only myself, you know? I needed another set of eyes. So I asked SMB if he could take an hour or so and read chapters one through three, red pen in hand, and point out any mistakes he thought I’d made (On the right, you’ll see what he assumed was my most glaring error. It wasn’t, of course. In my book, God is a woman).

After he finished his first-ever editing attempt, I took over his printer and began printing out packets, while he organized them into piles, making sure synopses, author bios, query letters and packets sample chapters were attached.

I snapped at him several times.

But, we were successful! And I’m excited to say that it’s out of my hands for now. All I can do is hope that this is meant to happen — and sleep. I’d really like to sleep, too…

Share this:

Nothing says Happy Valentine’s Day like sitting alone in a booth at Panera, willing your red pen to stay with you for another twenty pages before it runs out of ink.

No, really. There’s actually nothing that could have made this day better than reaching this benchmark. Earlier today, during my pre-work work session, I finally flipped the final page in my manuscript. What does that mean? I’m done right?

No.

There are a few more steps I need to go through before I can actually call this puppy a solid draft. I may have accidentally vindictively deleted the last three chapters in the book about a week ago, when I realized they weren’t as good as I’d hoped. So re-writing the ending is a major priority for me.

In addition to that, I have to now take these inked-in edits and input them on my computer. I’m kind of hoping I can get through that step of the process Wednesday night and Thursday morning during my pre-work session (I have a romantic Board of Education meeting tonight, and afterward I’m planning on meeting some of my girlfriends out for a drink at Bar Taco in Stamford).

I’ve written three drafts of my query letter now, and my editors (read: ExBoyf and SMB) finally seem pleased with the version I’m ready to send. So there’s still a very real chance that I could get these packets sent out by the weekend, like I’d originally hoped.

In the mean time, I think I’ll smile for a while!

Share this:

It’s been a couple months since I’ve actually touched the #NaNoWriMo project in earnest. Yes, I know, I’m disappointed in myself too. But even though I didn’t exactly plan this break, I think it has actually been good for me.

Yesterday was my day off from my real job, and I spent about five hours editing my manuscript — first at Starbucks, then at Cosi before heading to my volleyball double header (We don’t need to talk to the results of that one…) And you know what? I actually got some really good edits in, and I think I have to attribute some of that to the fact that these eyes have not been glued to those pages for seven or so hours a day in months. I was fresh. I had a new perspective, and I wasn’t afraid to red-pen out whole paragraphs or pages if necessary.

The other reason I was so productive is easy: Now that I’ve lost two months, my productivity is sky-rocketing. The new goal is to have my query packages in the hands of a selection of literary agents by no later than next Saturday. So what does that mean? I have to stuff some envelopes, right?

Oh Gosh, I wish. Last night I likened this part of the process to applying to college. You know what it’s like, This school wants the common app; This one wants four recommendations; This one can be submitted electronically, but needs 12 forms of ID including a blood sample. Each one of these literary agents wants something different, so last night I pulled a Total Maggie and made a spreadsheet so I could have an organized road map, spelling out what I need to accomplish and send for each agent.

I remember when I was a junior at Syracuse, I spent my Winter Break on the living room floor in the Farmhouse, creating a similar spreadsheet, in which I laid out the application guidelines for all 73 internships I applied to. Yes. 73. It was the longest month of my life, and my breath smelled like the sticky part on all those manilla folders for a solid day and a half after I mailed the last packet out. No, my vacation stories didn’t match up with the other girls’ in my sorority, but I ended up getting my top-choice spot, so it was worth it. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me on task with this endeavor. I just keep telling myself it’s going to be worth it. And it’ll be about 10 days this time, not a whole month.

I narrowed down the list of 28 potential agents I had created while in Mexico. The number is now considerably lower, which is a good feeling, given the fact that each agent packet is likely going to take an hour to organize — after I complete all the moving parts. So far, I’ve created the query letter, which I’ve sent out to about half a dozen friends for their constructive criticism and will complete polishing today. But after last night’s organizational all-nighter, I now know that I also need a one-page synopsis and a bio about me (apparently my 140-character Twitter info box just won’t be enough). In addition to that, I need to fast-track some of the editing I’ve been doing.

I know, I just said that I kicked some major editing butt yesterday. But that was all red-pen-on-page work, and now I need to enter those edits into the living, breathing Word document, which will ultimately take three times as long, as I second guess and ponder. Trust me. Editing Maggie is an inherently indecisive creature. Actually, wait, scratch that. I don’t think I’m indecisive. I’m more of a commitment phobe. My mind goes through this whole crazy thought process, where I question whether my new changes are really better than the original draft, and I freak out about the fact that changing the text is a huge decision, and panic about whether I’m ready to take that kind of leap.

No. It’s not normal, but at least if my book sells kajillions of copies I’ll be able to make a good case that therapy should be written off as a work expense…