THERE WAS A TIME I LOST HOPE_Insecure Writer's Support

Hope is an ethereal yet essential thing.

“I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.” ― Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

Beautiful words.  But sometimes the world becomes ashes in your hands, and what do you have left?

When hope dies, life has a weird way of giving you its form of C.P.R. or hitting you with those electric paddles. 

You see, in a strange way there is neither happiness nor misery in the world.

There is only the comparison of one state with another.

He who has been plunged into the deepest grief later comes to see what beauty he foolishly took for granted before.    

That which he was blind to prior becomes to him a healing scene of rare wonder.

Perhaps wisdom can be distilled into two words:

Wait and Hope.

I had a silly dream, born of the wonder my friends in The League of Five had in the thrill of continued adventures in linked books:

http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2010/11/leauge-of-five.html

To be able to weave a linked world of different heroes fighting in a cosmic war that few even realized was ongoing from one novel to another and have them read and loved was my dream.

Know how many copies of HIBBS, THE CUB WITH NO CLUE I have sold?   Two.  And I bought one of those for my own Kindle!  Ouch!

Some months back it hit me that I was never going to sell many of my books, much less be popular.

The Father murmured, “There are worse fates.” 

And I contracted cancer like my mother before me.

  Stunned and fearful, I said, “Yeah, you right.”

{By the way, for all you males out there – those are the 3 magic words for your angry wives or lovers:

YEAH, YOU RIGHT. 

They will at least not make matters worse!}

After a very unsettling time, the Father granted me a reprieve. 

A reprieve is all any of us get. 

Our promissory note on life always come due, and the Postman in Black turns up at our doorstep … and he has the key to every one of our doors.

Sandra, my best friend, is dying of cancer. 

When she emails me (which now is seldom for she is focusing on her family and her own fears),

she demands to know how I am doing in work, how my health is, and how my prose dream is doing.

It seems trite in the extreme to whine about the Lab Tech who has been actively trying for years to get me fired. 

(It is a puzzlement to all who know of it and me.  But sometimes you work with mentally unstable people … sadly this one has clout.)

Sandra insists she wants to know of my books. 

She says in this age of reality programming and Twitter, no one wants to think while they read. 

If I enjoy the act of writing, then write.  If 5 people find pleasure in my prose, then my dream has not been in vain

Life is short and fragile as both Sandra and I know. 

We must be mindful of the beauty and love that pushes through the cracks of the concrete of a world seemingly intent on crushing us.

If you want to give me some good news to write Sandra, buy a copy of

THE STARS BLEED AT MIDNIGHT   http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00N758R96  {$2.99}

or

HIBBS, THE CUB WITH NO CLUE  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MT8DNLY    {.99}

If not, that’s all right, too. 

I have learned the importance of each breath treasured for its own sake. 

A  good friend gone far away just reminded me on Facebook of my own words on my Author Page:

“The great thing about being a writer is that you CAN BE a princess, an astronaut, or a dinosaur.

Samuel Clemens was never taken seriously as a writer ... until he was famous.  He wrote ‘You are a crank ... until you succeed.’

People will take you as seriously as you take yourself.

We must be whole within ourselves -- no matter what inane nonsense folks think of us. 

That is why writers are lonely, for a dream is a private thing since no one's dream is dear to someone looking from the outside.

Every pioneer goes it alone, but writers are lucky: they get to take their characters along with them inside their heads!”

It is good to have good friends like Robert to remind us of who we are.

Have a lovely week, my friends.

TO HAVE EVERYTHING ... AND NOTHING_THE TURQUOISE WOMAN

{Courtesy of the genius of Orietta Rossi}

I am Day.

I am Night.

I am the World.

I am the Turquoise Woman.

And a traveler like all of you.

You walk miles. I spin through the vastness of space, listening to the ghost songs of the solar winds.

I awakened already spinning through space, hugged to the sun's warmth by his invisible arms of gravity.

But the sun is a distant lover and following his own path through the stars, drawn by bonds of his own.

He is caught like a glistening bead of dew in the web of the solar system.

Together, he and my sisters journey in a cluster which is itself part of a moving community of stars you call the Milky Way.

Travelers all, we can neither turn to the left nor to the right of our own volition.

We are children of gravity and explosion, cast into the darkness by forces we little understand or know.

I used to envy you your freedom of movement, of choice. But the longer I watched your scurrying over my surface, the more a dark truth spoke to me:

You, too, are children of the gravity of your species and the explosion of the times around you which you little understand or know.

You bristle with denial?

If you cannot understand your own heart, how can you understand another's?

Which choices are yours totally?

As gravity and momentum send me on my path, so does your DNA, location, and experience spread the pattern of the paths before you.

You are no more free than I am or the goldfish wandering the narrow confines of its bowl.

From within its bowl, the world seems so large to the goldfish. Yet, it is trapped within invisible walls.

As are you.

Freedom is an illusion to the goldfish, to me, and to you.

Do we choose or do the choices choose us?
*

HOW TO ESCAPE THE SLUSH PILE

Be sure to read Wendy's gracious spotlight of me on her fascinating blog :
http://fabulosityreads.blogspot.com/


"You are not judged by the heights to which you have risen,

but the depths from which you have climbed."
- Frederick Douglass


And the 19th century abolitionist should know. He began life as a slave to become the "Lion of Anacostia." And how did he begin that climb?

Reading.

The wife of his owner taught him the alphabet, then the beginnings of how to read.

His owner put a stop to that, saying that if he learned how to read, he would become dissatisfied with his lot.

"The first anti-slave lecture I ever heard," wryly said Frederick later in his life.

Later he would learn how to better read from the white children in the neighborhood and from the writings of the men with whom he worked.

Reading opened a whole new world of thought to the young boy. He read newspapers, political essays, books of every kind, and the New Testament --

which he taught other slaves to read at a weekly Sunday school.

It lasted six months before other slave owners, armed with clubs and stones, broke it up. Why? They feared their slaves being able to read.

To read.

It is an awesome ability we often take for granted.

And writing?

We who take up that task must understand its power. The power of the word to touch one human soul, beginning a rippling effect whose end none but The Father knows.

But before we can do that we must climb out of the dreaded slush pile.

And Scaling Mt. Everest was a cinch compared to climbing out of the slush pile.

Just ask any unpublished writer. Ask me. Ask the marines.

So how do you climb out of the slush pile?

You tackle the task like a professional. Agents are business men and women. You must approach them as such.

In essence, approaching an agent for representation is like approaching a bank for a loan.

Mark Twain said that banks were like those folks who were willing to lend you an umbrella when it was sunny.

When you don't need the money, banks will loan it to you. Why? Because they know you can pay it back.

Often it feels as if agents are silently saying with their rejections, "If I don't want your autograph, then I don't want your manuscript."

If you're Stephen King, agents will kill to represent you. Well, maybe not. But then again, one never knows.

But you're not Stephen King. So what do you do? No. Identity theft is out of the question.

Think bank loan. What do banks want from you? A good credit rating for one thing.

And what does an agent want from you? Credentials. Like what you ask?

Awards or achievements. Professional associations. Education. Related work experience.

How do you get those?

Attend local writers' workshops, taught by professional writers.

Politely get to know as many professionals there as you can. Very, very diplomatically ask them if you may use their names when inquiring of an agent.

Hey, all of them were where you are now. Most of them are quite kind. I will help you bury the rest. {Just checking to see if you were paying attention.}

Have your novel FULLY completed. I saw a friend lose her shot at a great agent because she submitted it only half done.

He wanted to see the full. She had to tell him the truth. End of a wonderful window of opportunity.

Have the first 30 pages so polished and suspenseful you would bet your life on them. You are certainly betting the life of your career and of your novel on them.

Write a killer query letter. How? Show her something that she very seldom sees.

Brevity.

Be Hemingway in your query.

Give yourself three sentences to convey the plot, characters, themes, and emotional impact of your 400 page novel.

IMdB is a good source to see how summaries of classic movies are written in three sentences.

Be an adverb stalker.

Stalk them and send them packing. No adverbs allowed. Or darn few. No first names for your target agent. No self-depreciating comments allowed either. People tend to take you at the value at which you place yourself.

We are drawn to confident people because we unconsciously accept that they have something about which to be confident.

If they are sure, it sets us at ease. They are competent. And who doesn't want a competent person at their side?

You're applying for a loan here. Be professional.

Be aware of the requirements of the specific agent that you're approaching. See you from her side of the desk. What is she looking for?

For one thing :

a novel that is unique but born of what is selling for the publishers. And what sells? Primal. Primal appeals to the unconscious mind of the reader, including the agent.

Primal hungers. Primal dangers. Primal drives.

Sex. Money. Safety. And threats to all three.

Give the agent the first three lines of your novel. Make sure they are great hooks. Sentences that reach out and grab the reader.

They will more than likely be the only sentences any agent will ever read of your submitted manuscript before coming to a conclusion of the attractiveness and saleability {is that a word?} of your work.

Submit to the agent EXACTLY as she requests.

This indicates that ... 1.) You are literate and can follow simple instructions. And ... 2.) You are a professional and are in this for the long haul.

If the agent asks you to change the ending or get rid of a character, remain calm.

This may simply be a test. Use some imagination, some deep-breathing exercises, and do what the agents requests.

She wants to see how you handle criticism. She doesn't want a tempermental prima donna on her hands. The one she sees in the mirror is quite enough, thank you.

{Just checking if you're paying attention again.}

How you handle these requests will show her your degree of professionalism. These requests are a good sign.

She's interested. She's been around a lot longer than you in the business. Try it her way.

Write it her way. Then, if the ending or character is pivotal in your thinking, present a reasoned, item by item defense. But be flexible. It is better to bounce than to break.

I know. I have the bruises to prove it. Good luck to all my fellow climbers out there.
***********

FALLEN in LIES THAT LOCUST TELL

{"Imagination is the eye of the soul."

-Mark Twain.}

Fallen, the last Sidhe, awakens in a British insane asylum with no memory of how she came to be there.

Earth has been invaded. But the good are too busy pointing their missiles at one another to notice.

It is up to Evil to defend this world's shores against alien invaders. Why? Evil considers Man their toys. And Evil does not share.

Here is the beginning of that tale told through the eyes of Fallen :



The spark of an anguished soul flew past me in the night. I shivered as her light drew back the curtains of my mind.


I would have cursed her had she lingered. But Death was impatient. Words breathed through the mists of my awareness.


"Darkness yet in light. To live half dead, a living death. And buried but yet more miserable. My self. My sepulcher."


My mind roughly brushed aside the dry leaves of Milton's broodings. No time for self-pity.


Yet too much time for all eternity. Enough! I was here for a reason.


And as always that reason was death. Always death. The why was unimportant. There was always a logical why for Abbadon.


The where, however, was another matter. And when might illuminate the present darkness of my mind as well.


Keeping my eyes closed, though tempting, would but delay the inevitable. I opened them.


Only a peek through slit eyes. After all, my ears told me that I was not alone. I frowned. A hospital room?


I reached out with more than my ears. My spirit shuddered as the ragged claws of madness raked it from down the hall.


An asylum. A Sidhe inprisoned within a madhouse. How utterly fitting.


I ran my long fingers along the rough sheet beneath me. A state asylum obviously. Even better.


But what state? My awakening consciousness was stubborn in its ignorance.


I bunched up the sheet in my fist in hot frustration. A sharp intake of breath from the next bed. Her scent came to me.


I smiled. And the air in the room grew chill. Only a human.


And I?


What was I?


From the corner of my eye I saw the human in the next bed begin to shiver. No matter. The human was not important. Time and place. They were.


I flicked my eyes to the barred window. The glass. Thick, dense. Like the humans who made it.


I studied the face reflected in the barred window.


High cheekbones, seemingly intent on bursting up and out of flesh that shimmered as if coated with stardust.


A living waterfall of honey-wheat hair, looking more like a lion's mane than any other earthly word I could use.


My eyes.


I shivered looking at them though they were my own.

Large, slanted fae eyes chilling even me with their lack of warmth or mercy. Their color the burnt-out ends of ancient days.


Under my fingertips a pebble. I nodded. A mere speck of stone. But it would do.


The pebble shot from between my thumb and forefinger like a bullet. An electric circuit died, wailing its death song in tones higher than humans could hear.


I smiled like a wolf. We would have visitors soon.


More the pity for them.


I drew in a breath from the cold breeze bleeding from the wounded window. The sharp tang of Autumn.


Oak. Ash. Thorn. Decay.


Rotting leaves, mottled in bright hues of strangled life. The dark and bloody soil beneath them breathed out its lineage.


An aching sadness hollowed out my chest. The Misty Isles. Albion. England.


I whispered, the words feeling like dewdrops of blood on a wounded doe, "The lonely season in lonely lands."
***
When a star is born, what song does it sing?
I think it may sing this one :

SILENT KNIGHT

This Christmas Eve as I sit alone with ghosts from my past, it occurs to me that each of us is a Silent Knight ...

A Silent Knight for whatever creed shapes our thoughts and steps.

No matter our words, it is our actions that speak for us.

Have we spoken love and forgiveness to only retort sharply at the harried store clerk who did not respond fast enough for us?

Have we scoured the stores for just the right present, the perfect gift wrap to snap at the very ones we bought it for out of irritation and weariness?

Have we slaved over a king's spread of assorted recipes, only to have no appetite or warmth or patience for those we prepared the delicious dishes for?

If we were to glance up and see the flag of the true creed which our actions proclaim we live by, would we cringe in disbelief?

Today books, films and Internet sites are filled with fanciful tales purporting to tell the history of "Silent Night."

Some tell of mice eating the bellows of the organ creating the necessity for a hymn to be accompanied by a guitar. Others claim that Joseph Mohr was forced to write the words to a new carol in haste since the organ would not play.

The German words for the original six stanzas of the carol we know as "Silent Night" were written by Joseph Mohr in 1816, when he was a young priest assigned to a pilgrimage church in Mariapfarr, Austria.

The fact is, we have no idea if any particular event inspired Joseph Mohr to pen his poetic version of the birth of the Christchild. The world is fortunate, however, that he didn't leave it behind when he was transferred to Oberndorf the following year (1817).

On December 24, 1818 Joseph Mohr journeyed to the home of musician-schoolteacher Franz Gruber who lived in an apartment over the schoolhouse in nearby Arnsdorf. He showed his friend the poem and asked him to add a melody and guitar accompaniment so that it could be sung at Midnight Mass.

His reason for wanting the new carol is unknown.

Later that evening, as the two men, backed by the choir, stood in front of the main altar in St. Nicholas Church and sang "Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!" for the first time, they could hardly imagine the impact their composition would have on the world.

And so, they were Silent Knights for their God. As we, too, are Silent Knights for our gods : esteem in the eyes of others, wealth, social status, world acclaim, control over others, control over ourselves,

or He who sang the universe into being.

And we can hardly imagine the impact our actions, positive or caustic, will have on the network of fragile souls in our world.

May your Christmas Eve be magical and healing. Me and my Christmas ghosts tip our egg nog to you, while we listen to Enya singing "Silent Night." (Picture courtesy of S. Ward)
***

HOW TO ESCAPE THE SLUSH PILE

Here is Gypsy helping me edit my YA urban fantasy, THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH.

She is a harsh critic.

Swipes from those claws sting!

Now to my post :


"You are not judged by the heights to which you have risen,

but the depths from which you have climbed."
- Frederick Douglass


And the 19th century abolitionist should know. He began life as a slave to become the "Lion of Anacostia."

And how did he begin that climb?

Reading.

The wife of his owner taught him the alphabet, then the beginnings of how to read.

His owner put a stop to that, saying that if he learned how to read, he would become dissatisfied with his lot.

"The first anti-slave lecture I ever heard," wryly said Frederick later in his life.

Later he would learn how to better read from the white children in the neighborhood and from the writings of the men with whom he worked.

Reading opened a whole new world of thought to the young boy. He read newspapers, political essays, books of every kind, and the New Testament --

which he taught other slaves to read at a weekly Sunday school.

It lasted six months before other slave owners, armed with clubs and stones, broke it up. Why? They feared their slaves being able to read.

To read.

It is an awesome ability we often take for granted.

And writing?

We who take up that task must understand its power. The power of the word to touch one human soul, beginning a rippling effect whose end none but The Father knows.

But before we can do that we must climb out of the dreaded slush pile.

And Scaling Mt. Everest was a cinch compared to climbing out of the slush pile.

Just ask any unpublished writer. Ask me. Ask the marines.

So how do you climb out of the slush pile?

You tackle the task like a professional. Agents are business men and women. You must approach them as such.

In essence, approaching an agent for representation is like approaching a bank for a loan.

Mark Twain said that banks were like those folks who were willing to lend you an umbrella when it was sunny.

When you don't need the money, banks will loan it to you. Why? Because they know you can pay it back.

Often it feels as if agents are silently saying with their rejections,

"If I don't want your autograph, then I don't want your manuscript."

If you're Stephen King, agents will kill to represent you. Well, maybe not.

But then again, one never knows.

But you're not Stephen King. So what do you do? No. Identity theft is out of the question.

Think bank loan. What do banks want from you? A good credit rating for one thing.

And what does an agent want from you? Credentials. Like what you ask?

Awards or achievements. Professional associations. Education. Related work experience.

How do you get those?

Attend local writers' workshops, taught by professional writers.

Politely get to know as many professionals there as you can. Very, very diplomatically ask them if you may use their names when inquiring of an agent.

Hey, all of them were where you are now.

Most of them are quite kind. I will help you bury the rest. {Just checking to see if you were paying attention.}

Have your novel FULLY completed.

I saw a friend lose her shot at a great agent because she submitted it only half done. He wanted to see the full. She had to tell him the truth.

End of a wonderful window of opportunity.

Have the first 30 pages so polished and suspenseful you would bet your life on them. You are certainly betting the life of your career and of your novel on them.

Write a killer query letter. How? Show her something that she very seldom sees.

Brevity.

Be Hemingway in your query.

Give yourself three sentences to convey the plot, characters, themes, and emotional impact of your 400 page novel. IMdB is a good source to see how summaries of classic movies are written in three sentences.

Be an adverb stalker.

Stalk them and send them packing. No adverbs allowed. Or darn few. No first names for your target agent. No self-depreciating comments allowed either. People tend to take you at the value at which you place yourself.

We are drawn to confident people because we unconsciously accept that they have something about which to be confident.

If they are sure, it sets us at ease. They are competent. And who doesn't want a competent person at their side?

You're applying for a loan here. Be professional.

Be aware of the requirements of the specific agent that you're approaching. See you from her side of the desk. What is she looking for?

For one thing : a novel that is unique but born of what is selling for the publishers.

And what sells? Primal. Primal appeals to the unconscious mind of the reader, including the agent.

Primal hungers. Primal dangers. Primal drives.

Sex. Money. Safety. And threats to all three.

Give the agent the first three lines of your novel.

Make sure they are great hooks. Sentences that reach out and grab the reader.

They will more than likely be the only sentences any agent will ever read of your submitted manuscript

before coming to a conclusion of the attractiveness and saleability {is that a word?} of your work.

Submit to the agent EXACTLY as she requests.

This indicates that ... 1.) You are literate and can follow simple instructions.

And ... 2.) You are a professional and are in this for the long haul.

If the agent asks you to change the ending or get rid of a character, remain calm.

This may simply be a test. Use some imagination, some deep-breathing exercises, and do what the agents requests.

She wants to see how you handle criticism. She doesn't want a tempermental prima donna on her hands. The one she sees in the mirror is quite enough, thank you.

{Just checking if you're paying attention again.}

How you handle these requests will show her your degree of professionalism.

These requests are a good sign. She's interested. She's been around a lot longer than you in the business. Try it her way.

Write it her way.

Then, if the ending or character is pivotal in your thinking, present a reasoned, item by item defense. But be flexible.

It is better to bounce than to break.

I know. I have the bruises to prove it. Good luck to all my fellow climbers out there.
***********
During these past eight work days straight, I've been listening to this Enya tune. She released a single of this during the time of 9-11, its profits went to the surviving families of those killed in the Twin Towers. Thought you might enjoy it as well :

WHAT TO DO AFTER REJECTION

{“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight,

and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

- Oscar Wilde.}

I received this in my inbox this morning in reply to my query of Feb. 26th :

Dear Roland,

Thank you for your submission. Although I find that your novel has potential, it is not the type of story that I seek at this time. I wish you the best of luck, and hope to hear great things from you in the future.

Best regards,

Marisa

Not the worst form rejection I've ever received. So what to do?

Get back on that horse.

Research who wants urban fantasy. I did and found a freelance editor who is getting into the agent side of things.

And she handles, among other things, urban fantasy. Go here to see if she handles your genre :

http://caseylmccormick.blogspot.com/2010/09/agent-spotlight-cari-foulk.html

And here is my sparkling, revised query : (No applause please -- just throw money.)

Dear Ms. Foulk :

Long before Man. Long before Light. Darkness reigned.

Light pierces its flesh. It hates the light. It hates even more Man who casts light like a garment over this world.

A man with the blood of Death in his veins. A revenant priest. Both thought their lives couldn't get any worse. Hurricane Katrina proved them wrong.

FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE is the 90,000 word urban fantasy detailing their struggles to keep the survivors alive and the Darkness at bay in post-Katrina New Orleans.

Here are the first few paragraphs :

It rained lies and death today.

I stood knee-deep in water outside my French Quarter jazz club, Meilori’s. My soul stretched tight across my chest. Everything I saw and heard in the shadows spoke to me ... in threats.

The sudden, short explosion of an unseen gun. A quick, sharp scream in the distance. And the blue spurt of a lighted match at the far end of the street. My city bled slowly in the ripples of the flooded streets.

I leaned back against the door to my club as if for reassurance that something solid still remained to me. That it survived Katrina was a mixed blessing. It was all that was left to me of my wife.

Staying here was both penance and purgatory. Meilori’s was the kind of place in which almost anything was likely to happen and in which almost everything had.

Inside, fifty-one survivors of Katrina were huddled in shivering, too quiet clusters. Words have no meaning when a city dies. Nothing much does.

Somewhere distant in the hot, red darkness a shot rang out. Another called out to it like a wolf. But it came from a different direction. I smiled bitterly. The predators had crawled out from their boarded shelters. They knew the restraint of law had died this day. Soon they would come for me.

You see, I had enemies in the night. And not all of them were human.

***

To get a better idea of my writing voice, you may want to visit my blog, WRITING IN THE CROSSHAIRS http://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/


I am a former high school teacher, family counselor, and now a blood courier. The last a result of being evacuated from Lake Charles due to Hurricane Rita and having to support myself any way I could.

I found I liked the job and the people with whom I worked. And it gives me more time to write. Thank you for reading my query.

Two other agents are considering the first 50 pages of my novel. I would be happy to send you further sample chapters or the full manuscript May the rest of this year hold only happy surprises with some relief for punished eyes and swamped workloads.

Roland D. Yeomans M.A.
rxena77@yahoo.com

I wish all of us luck in finding success in our publication dreams, Roland
And here's wishing us all a day without rain :

HOW TO ESCAPE THE SLUSH PILE

"You are not judged by the heights to which you have risen, but the depths from which you have climbed."
- Frederick Douglass


And the 19th century abolitionist should know. He began life as a slave to become the "Lion of Anacostia." And how did he begin that climb?

Reading.

The wife of his owner taught him the alphabet, then the beginnings of how to read. His owner put a stop to that, saying that if he learned how to read, he would become dissatisfied with his lot.

"The first anti-slave lecture I ever heard," wryly said Frederick later in his life.

Later he would learn how to better read from the white children in the neighborhood and from the writings of the men with whom he worked. Reading opened a whole new world of thought to the young boy. He read newspapers, political essays, books of every kind, and the New Testament -- which he taught other slaves to read at a weekly Sunday school.

It lasted six months before other slave owners, armed with clubs and stones, broke it up. Why? They feared their slaves being able to read.

To read.

It is an awesome ability we often take for granted.

And writing? We who take up that task must understand its power. The power of the word to touch one human soul, beginning a rippling effect whose end none but The Father knows.

But before we can do that we must climb out of the dreaded slush pile.

And Scaling Mt. Everest was a cinch compared to climbing out of the slush pile.

Just ask any unpublished writer. Ask me. Ask the marines.

So how do you climb out of the slush pile?

You tackle the task like a professional. Agents are business men and women. You must approach them as such.

In essence, approaching an agent for representation is like approaching a bank for a loan. Mark Twain said that banks were like those folks who were willing to lend you an umbrella when it was sunny.

When you don't need the money, banks will loan it to you. Why? Because they know you can pay it back.

Often it feels as if agents are silently saying with their rejections, "If I don't want your autograph, then I don't want your manuscript."

If you're Stephen King, agents will kill to represent you. Well, maybe not. But then again, one never knows.

But you're not Stephen King. So what do you do? No. Identity theft is out of the question.

Think bank loan. What do banks want from you? A good credit rating for one thing.

And what does an agent want from you? Credentials. Like what you ask?

Awards or achievements. Professional associations. Education. Related work experience.

How do you get those?

Attend local writers' workshops, taught by professional writers. Politely get to know as many professionals there as you can. Very, very diplomatically ask them if you may use their names when inquiring of an agent.

Hey, all of them were where you are now. Most of them are quite kind. I will help you bury the rest. {Just checking to see if you were paying attention.}

Have your novel FULLY completed. I saw a friend lose her shot at a great agent because she submitted it only half done. He wanted to see the full. She had to tell him the truth. End of a wonderful window of opportunity.

Have the first 30 pages so polished and suspenseful you would bet your life on them. You are certainly betting the life of your career and of your novel on them.

Write a killer query letter. How? Show her something that she very seldom sees.

Brevity.

Be Hemingway in your query. Give yourself three sentences to convey the plot, characters, themes, and emotional impact of your 400 page novel. IMdB is a good source to see how summaries of classic movies are written in three sentences.

Be an adverb stalker. Stalk them and send them packing. No adverbs allowed. Or darn few. No first names for your target agent. No self-depreciating comments allowed either. People tend to take you at the value at which you place yourself.

We are drawn to confident people because we unconsciously accept that they have something about which to be confident. If they are sure, it sets us at ease. They are competent. And who doesn't want a competent person at their side?

You're applying for a loan here. Be professional. Be aware of the requirements of the specific agent that you're approaching. See you from her side of the desk. What is she looking for?

For one thing : a novel that is unique but born of what is selling for the publishers. And what sells? Primal. Primal appeals to the unconscious mind of the reader, including the agent.

Primal hungers. Primal dangers. Primal drives.

Sex. Money. Safety. And threats to all three.

Give the agent the first three lines of your novel. Make sure they are great hooks. Sentences that reach out and grab the reader.

They will more than likely be the only sentences any agent will ever read of your submitted manuscript before coming to a conclusion of the attractiveness and saleability {is that a word?} of your work.

Submit to the agent EXACTLY as she requests. This indicates that ... 1.) You are literate and can follow simple instructions. And ... 2.) You are a professional and are in this for the long haul.

If the agent asks you to change the ending or get rid of a character, remain calm. This may simply be a test. Use some imagination, some deep-breathing exercises, and do what the agents requests.

She wants to see how you handle criticism. She doesn't want a tempermental prima donna on her hands. The one she sees in the mirror is quite enough, thank you.

{Just checking if you're paying attention again.}

How you handle these requests will show her your degree of professionalism. These requests are a good sign. She's interested. She's been around a lot longer than you in the business. Try it her way.

Write it her way. Then, if the ending or character is pivotal in your thinking, present a reasoned, item by item defense. But be flexible. It is better to bounce than to break.

I know. I have the bruises to prove it. Good luck to all my fellow climbers out there.
***********
I am beginning what will be probably turn out to be 18 work hours straight - which is why this early post. I will be listening to this during some of the stressful times. Thought you might enjoy it as well :

TO RULE THE DARKNESS

To rule the darkness. That is what all of us must do. The darkness within.

But some are foolish enough to desire to rule the darkness without and the creatures who live within it. To accomplish that mystics all through history have searched for mythical objects of power : the helmet of Hades, the girdle of Aphrodite, and the ring of King Solomon, said to bring the wearer command over demons.

Too powerful to fall into the wrong hands, it was hidden in the lost mines of King Solomon in the legendary Ophir. But even the location of the fabled Ophir has become lost. Until stumbled upon by the one man who could care less about power or wealth, the haunted Texas Ranger, Captain Samuel McCord.

So as irony would have it, McCord ended up with the fabled ring of King Solomon and promptly refused to use it. But let him tell you of it from the incident in his cabin aboard the cursed DEMTER where he is getting dressed { from RITES OF PASSAGE }:


I looked out at the eye of night peeking at me through the curtained, round window. A part of me wanted to curl up in a little ball and try to find some peace in sleep. But I had promises to keep.

Time to go to that Count's celebration.

I got dressed, feeling the absence of my hip holster and its Colt. Maybe because of that I reached into my saddlebags until my fingers found what the Captain had been so interested in. The fabled ring of King Solomon.

I pulled it out and put it on the ring finger of my left gloved hand. I knew better than to look on it straight on. I had tried often enough in the past. But my eyes kept slipping off, never getting a clear look. It was as if the eyes of Man weren't meant to see the design. Only creatures of darkness.

Every so often, I would try to see it. As long as I couldn't, it meant I was still human deep down inside myself. Not being able to stop myself, I tried again. A weight seemed to lift off my chest as my eyes slid painfully off of it. Still human.

{Later on in the evening, McCord is escorting the mysterious woman, Meilori Shinseen, to a grand ball. She, her best friend, Lady Inari, and McCord are halted by the approach of the undead wife of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Ellen Tucker. And once again, McCord is tempted by the power of King Solomon's ring.}



A breath from the grave seemed to breathe out from my left. I turned to face it and found it was a her. Odd. Death always seemed to wear a woman’s face in my life.

Except for Rachel. She’d had no face at all.

Just a little shorter than Meilori, this woman had the wild, wanton look of a repressed minister's daughter gone bad. Her brown hair a tumbled waterfall cascading down her shoulders, it barely hid a plunging neckline of ivory flesh that somehow looked clammy. Her smile was cruel, but less so than her brown eyes.

And of course, since this was me we were talking about, she didn't have one ember of life flickering around her body. Worse, somehow she seemed familiar. Yet, she ignored me completely. She smiled like a shark at Meilori and spoke in a haughty whine.

As she spoke, the hidden world behind her glittering eyes seemed to be changing and darkening. "I knew one day you would get yours, Meilori."

"That is Lady Meilori to you, Tucker."

"Tucker? Is your memory fading like your beauty, Meilori? It is Emerson."

Meilori smiled colder than her eyes. "You forget, leech. Til death do you part. And you have died and so have parted."

The undead woman called Tucker spoke low. "Soon, very soon, my betrothed and I will be re-united."

Inari covered a false yawn with a lazy hand. "Tucker, did you have something to say, or were you merely wasting our time as usual?"

Miss Tucker started to speak when it occurred to me why she seemed so familiar. "I've seen you before."

Her thin lips curled. "That line was old when you were young."

I shook my head. "Not actually seen you in person really. But I saw your tiny portrait in the pocketwatch of Henry."

She frowned, "Henry? There are a million boring Henry's in this world."

"But only one I nearly threw overboard into the Atlantic."

She sneered, "And that should mean something to me?"

"It should. Seems even though you were married to another man, poor Henry couldn't get you out of his heart."

She yawned, "How utterly boring."

I felt my face go tight. "He was a good man. He deserved a better woman to lose his heart to."

"Remind me to care next century."

She turned to Meilori. "And, as for you, bitch, Lord Hasatan has ordered you to come to him. Now."

Her smile seemed skull-like as she murmured, "You are finally going to get yours."

Meilori turned sick pale, as did Lady Inari. Whoever this Lord Hasatan was, he had to be wicked, indeed, for an Animal Person to fear him. I shook my head again.

"No, she's not."

Tucker's eyes became slits. "Stupid human, who are you to tell the Gray Man anything?"

The Gray Man? I smiled like the happy wolf I felt. Finally, I was going to lock horns with that one.

"You tell The Gray Man that if he has a grievance with Lady Meilori to take it up with me first. She's under my protection. He gets her only through me -- that is if he has the grit to take on a man for a change."

Meilori became bleach white. "Samuel, do not! You have no idea what Lord Hasatan can do."

Tucker hissed, "Take your own message! Who do you think you are to order me?"

I slowly raised my left hand, the chandelier's light striking fire from King Solomon's ring. The ghoul flinched as if stabbed, her eyes never leaving the ring on my gloved hand. Her shoulders started to bow, though I could tell she was fighting the lowering of her body. The back of my scalp started to prickle. This felt wrong.

No. I never owned slaves or cottoned to those who did. Each person was entitled to the freedom to choose. And I wouldn't take that right away from even such a thing as the undead creature that was facing me. I lowered my hand.

"Let me re-phrase that. Please, if you would, tell Lord Hasatan that I request he take up with me his grievance with Lady Meilori before he talks with her."

Tucker raised her eyes, though she kept her head lowered, giving her hot eyes a wolfish look. "Why request when you could command?"

"Because there has to be a difference between me and those I fight, else what's the point?"

"You are a fool!"

I smiled, "I don't think you'll get an argument from anyone I know about that."

Her eyes drank in Solomon's ring. "I will gladly tell Lord Hasatan about your stupidity, so I can watch him tear that ring off your bloody corpse."

"It's been tried before. I'm still here. Those that tried aren't."

But Tucker hadn't heard. She had already spun away, moving away towards the opposite end of the saloon. I tried to see who might The Gray Man be from the direction she took. But she was soon lost in the tangle of bodies. I felt Meilori tug on my arm. She was furious.

"I did not ask you for help."

"It wasn't necessary. No lady I escort gets threatened without me standing up for her."

She slapped me. The fact of it stung more than the blow. "When I need defending, I will let you know. Now, I will deal with The Gray Man myself."

And with that, she was off in a huff. Lady Irani hurriedly followed her. She looked back at me over her shoulder. "Do you have any idea what kind of fool you are?"

"Is there more than one kind?"

She didn't answer. She was too busy catching up to Meilori. Soon, they were lost in the crowd as well. But from the mirror beside me, Elu answered for Irani.

"Yes, there are, Dyami, and you are all of them mixed up in one. Why did you mention King Solomon to that oaf of a captain in the first place, much less wear that ring? Now, all on board know you have it. You have become a walking target for every would-be tyrant."

"It seemed the thing to do at the moment."

His bear eyes rolled. "I would tell you to shoot yourself in the foot, but you have already done that."

I turned to tell him what he could do with his wisdom-in-hindsight. But he was gone. It seemed no one wanted any part of my company - even me.

I studied the saloon around me. Rubies and diamonds sparkled on ivory throats and wrists like drippings from the sea. The low rumble of the engines was muffled by the rise and fall of conversation and music, the ebb and tide of desire upon destiny. The people milling through the chamber seemed to be talking against the darkness that pressed in on them or pushed out to escape from within them. Or maybe it was only my own darkness I felt pressing hungry against the window of my soul.

****************************************

And with all this talk of rings of power, why not watch a music video from one of my favorite movies?

WHEN DARKNESS FALLS

"May it be when darkness falls,
Your heart will be true."
-Enya

Darkness falls in all manner of ways. Disaster. Death. Disease. They play no favorites. Is any shoulder strong enough when the clouds cry?

I blend historic fact in with supernatural shivers, focusing on a battered man trying hard not to buckle under the darkness in FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE.

Each chapter begins with a true quotation of the times, then blends in with Samuel McCord's struggles with questions of honor and enemies in the shadows.

CHAPTER FOUR

ISN'T ANYONE COMING?

"The looting is out of control. The French Quarter is
under attack."
- New Orleans councilwoman, Jackie Carlson
{August 30, 2005 }

-- As Councilwoman Carlson spoke, President Bush was playing
guitar with country singer Mark Willis in San Diego. Bush
would return to Crawford, Texas for one more night of taking
it easy before cutting his vacation short.

*******************

As I made my way down the flooded street towards the Convention Center, I looked up at the full moon. It seemed closer than civilization or any semblance of rescue. If there was to be any help for those suffering at the center, it would have to come from me.

As I waded along into the night, the black mists curled and creamed in the humid darkness like an unspoken fear trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness. A trick of the thick air, the moon of blood leered down upon its reflection on the dark waters of the flooded street. Ripples of its long bloody image flowed from the floating dead body of a cat, looking like fingers caressing its kill. The cat’s death apparently hadn't been pretty nor was its corpse. The night became colder than it should have been. Much, much colder.

Rind, the Angelus of Death whose blood had mingled with mine ,whispered in words only I could hear. “At night the dead come back to drink from the living.”

I didn’t need Rind to tell me that the night was not my friend. Too much death had happened too recently. Spirits, lost and angry, were walking beside me. Torn clothing. Hollow eyes of shadows. Sharp, white teeth. Long, writhing fingers slowly closing and unclosing.

Because of Rind's blood in my veins, I could see them slowly circling, hear their trailing, splashing steps behind me, feel the heat of their sunken, hungry eyes upon my back.

Were they soul-echoes, mere refracted memory of a will? Or were there such things as literal ghosts? Just because I could see them didn't mean that I understood what they were.

I turned the corner and came upon the startled, fragile grace of a too-white egret standing alert in the middle of the flooded street, staring back at me. Its long sleek neck slowly cocked its sloping head at me. Then, gathering its huge wings, it launched itself into the air with its long black legs. I saw the spirits of the dead around me longingly stare after its curved flight of grace and freedom into the dark sky. I watched with them.

I felt a tug on my left jacket sleeve. I looked down. My chest grew cold. The dead face of a little girl was looking up at me. Or rather the face of her lost, wandering spirit, her full black eyes glistening like twin pools of oil. Her face was a wrenching mix of fear and longing. She tried to speak. Nothing came out of her moving lips. Looking like she was on the verge of tears, she tugged on my sleeve again and pointed to the end of the block. I followed her broken-nailed finger. I shivered.

She was pointing to her own corpse.

I took in a ragged breath I didn’t need to compose myself. The Convention Center would have to wait. I had sworn a long time ago that no child would ever ask my help without getting it.

A haunted singing was faint on the breeze. Somewhere the dead had found their voices. I nodded to the girl’s spirit and waded to her corpse, the force of the rushing flood waters having washed it up onto the sidewalk and against a store front where it slowly bobbed in place. I saw the girl’s spirit out of the corner of my eye, studying the shell of flesh she had once worn. Her head was turned slightly to one side. The expression to her face was sorrowful and wistful at the same time. She pointed again.

I followed the broken-nailed finger. A rosary all wrapped up in the balled fingers of her left hand. She gestured sharply, then looked at me with eyes echoing things I did not want to see. I nodded again and kneeled down beside the girl’s swollen corpse. I pried the rosary loose, wrapping it around the fingers of my own gloved left hand.

I looked up at the girl’s spirit. She just stood there frowning as if in concentration. Her brow furrowed, and her jaws clenched. I could swear beads of sweat appeared on her ghostly forehead.

I jerked as suddenly guttural words were forced from the long-dead throat of the corpse at my boots. “T-Tell M-Mama ... peaceful now.”

And with that, she looked up into the night. I followed her eyes. She was looking at the retreating body of the egret slowly flying into a filmy, billowing cloud. I looked back to her spirit.

She was gone.

“I promise,” I said to the empty night.

Where had she gone? Had her spirit held itself together just long enough to pass on those words of good-bye to her Mama? Was her soul flying alongside that oblivious egret slowly evaporating within the filaments of that cloud? Or was she finding out the truth about the Great Mystery that haunted me still?

I had no answers. Only more questions. Questions in the dark.

**********************************************

I am listening to SLEEPING SUN by Nightwish, an evocative Goth metal tune. In NEW ORLEANS ARABESQUE, Tarja sings this tune in Samuel's club at a time when his heart is breaking. Hope you enjoy this video :

WHEN DARKNESS FALLS IN FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE

"May it be when darkness falls,
Your heart will be true."
-Enya

Darkness falls in all manner of ways. Disaster. Death. Disease. They play no favorites. Is any shoulder strong enough when the clouds cry?

I blend historic fact in with supernatural shivers, focusing on a battered man trying hard not to buckle under the darkness in FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE.

Each chapter begins with a true quotation of the times, then blends in with Samuel McCord's struggles with questions of honor and enemies in the shadows.

CHAPTER FOUR

ISN'T ANYONE COMING?

"The looting is out of control. The French Quarter is
under attack."
- New Orleans councilwoman, Jackie Carlson
{August 30, 2005 }

-- As Councilwoman Carlson spoke, President Bush was playing
guitar with country singer Mark Willis in San Diego. Bush
would return to Crawford, Texas for one more night of taking
it easy before cutting his vacation short.

*******************

As I made my way down the flooded street towards the Convention Center, I looked up at the full moon. It seemed closer than civilization or any semblance of rescue. If there was to be any help for those suffering at the center, it would have to come from me.

As I waded along into the night, the black mists curled and creamed in the humid darkness like an unspoken fear trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness. A trick of the thick air, the moon of blood leered down upon its reflection on the dark waters of the flooded street. Ripples of its long bloody image flowed from the floating dead body of a cat, looking like fingers caressing its kill. The cat’s death apparently hadn't been pretty nor was its corpse. The night became colder than it should have been. Much, much colder.

Rind, the Angelus of Death whose blood had mingled with mine ,whispered in words only I could hear. “At night the dead come back to drink from the living.”

I didn’t need Rind to tell me that the night was not my friend. Too much death had happened too recently. Spirits, lost and angry, were walking beside me. Torn clothing. Hollow eyes of shadows. Sharp, white teeth. Long, writhing fingers slowly closing and unclosing.

Because of Rind's blood in my veins, I could see them slowly circling, hear their trailing, splashing steps behind me, feel the heat of their sunken, hungry eyes upon my back.

Were they soul-echoes, mere refracted memory of a will? Or were there such things as literal ghosts? Just because I could see them didn't mean that I understood what they were.

I turned the corner and came upon the startled, fragile grace of a too-white egret standing alert in the middle of the flooded street, staring back at me. Its long sleek neck slowly cocked its sloping head at me. Then, gathering its huge wings, it launched itself into the air with its long black legs. I saw the spirits of the dead around me longingly stare after its curved flight of grace and freedom into the dark sky. I watched with them.

I felt a tug on my left jacket sleeve. I looked down. My chest grew cold. The dead face of a little girl was looking up at me. Or rather the face of her lost, wandering spirit, her full black eyes glistening like twin pools of oil. Her face was a wrenching mix of fear and longing. She tried to speak. Nothing came out of her moving lips. Looking like she was on the verge of tears, she tugged on my sleeve again and pointed to the end of the block. I followed her broken-nailed finger. I shivered.

She was pointing to her own corpse.

I took in a ragged breath I didn’t need to compose myself. The Convention Center would have to wait. I had sworn a long time ago that no child would ever ask my help without getting it.

A haunted singing was faint on the breeze. Somewhere the dead had found their voices. I nodded to the girl’s spirit and waded to her corpse, the force of the rushing flood waters having washed it up onto the sidewalk and against a store front where it slowly bobbed in place. I saw the girl’s spirit out of the corner of my eye, studying the shell of flesh she had once worn. Her head was turned slightly to one side. The expression to her face was sorrowful and wistful at the same time. She pointed again.

I followed the broken-nailed finger. A rosary all wrapped up in the balled fingers of her left hand. She gestured sharply, then looked at me with eyes echoing things I did not want to see. I nodded again and kneeled down beside the girl’s swollen corpse. I pried the rosary loose, wrapping it around the fingers of my own gloved left hand.

I looked up at the girl’s spirit. She just stood there frowning as if in concentration. Her brow furrowed, and her jaws clenched. I could swear beads of sweat appeared on her ghostly forehead.

I jerked as suddenly guttural words were forced from the long-dead throat of the corpse at my boots. “T-Tell M-Mama ... peaceful now.”

And with that, she looked up into the night. I followed her eyes. She was looking at the retreating body of the egret slowly flying into a filmy, billowing cloud. I looked back to her spirit.

She was gone.

“I promise,” I said to the empty night.

Where had she gone? Had her spirit held itself together just long enough to pass on those words of good-bye to her Mama? Was her soul flying alongside that oblivious egret slowly evaporating within the filaments of that cloud? Or was she finding out the truth about the Great Mystery that haunted me still?

I had no answers. Only more questions. Questions in the dark.

**********************************************

I am listening to Myleene Klass's haunting piano interpretation of "Now We Are Free" from GLADIATOR. After her shot at success from a British form of AMERICAN IDOL ended due to feuding within her band, she had to reinvent herself from a pop singer to classical pianist -- and succeeded. She is an inspiration to all of us who will have to re-invent ourselves several times in our adult lives. Check out her website www.myleeneklass.co.uk/ and wish her luck on her upcoming baby.

Thank all of you for dropping by. Have a healing weekend. Roland