I reeeeeeally hate to admit this. But...

Let me apologize in advance: this post is gonna get a little long. And it probably won’t be very funny either, unless you care to have a laugh at my ‘once-upon-a-time’ ignorance and naiveté. If that does happen to be the case, then go right ahead and laugh, my friend. And know that I’m laughing with you.

This post tells the story of my rise to being a Writer. If, at any point, it starts to get dry or boring, let me encourage you to keep reading to the end, cuz there are a few surprises along the way.

Cindy and I were searching through some old papers the other night, and I started going through my Big Box O’ Rejection just for fun. Cuz you know how distracting old papers can be when you’re looking for obscure documents. Anyway, I found an envelope full of correspondence, all dated from 1999, from my first agent. Yes, you read that right – my current agent is not my first agent.

Her name was Debbie Fine, she ran Southeast Literary Agency, and if either of those names sounds vaguely familiar to you, then you deserve a virtual pat on the back, because it means at some point in your writing research, you've gone that extra mile . Let's just say, they should be well known.

So 1999 was the year I finished writing my first book. I’d dabbled in short stories before that, most of which sucked (as evidenced by the section of my sidebar I call ‘Obselete Fiction’), but after writing a complete novel, I was feeling pretty good. So I bought some books on how to get published, and started doing all the right and usual stuff. I was careful and committed and faithful, but you know, the Internet just wasn’t as powerful a research tool as it is now.

The only good reference I had available to me was an earlier incarnation of The Writer’s Guide to Literary Agents. In those days (I’ve gotta stop saying “in those days” – it makes me sound old) about a third of the book was dedicated to listing fee charging agents. And as near as I can figure, there aren’t quite as many of them nowadays. I think because ‘fee-charging’ has come to be synonymous with ‘incompetent’, or ‘scamming’. Point is, that wasn’t quite as clear as it is today.

In those days I thought that simply writing a book was a monumental and victorious accomplishment. In those days I figured the writing was the hard part. Surely the publishing end of things was a damn near given. Probably the most ignorant and pathetic of all my assumptions was that, in those days, I thought my writing was good.

So after like sixty or seventy rejections, I started combing through the fee chargers.

And I quickly struck gold.

Within a month, Ms. Fine had requested a full manuscript, then offered to represent me. In her initial letter, she asked for a synopsis of any other completed works I might have, then she went on in detail describing the types of marketing materials she’d need when she began the submission process. Next she informed me that unlike most agencies, they only charged a 10% commission, but that she would need $150 up front to cover copying and postage. “At Southeast, we only charge you once and that covers all expenses for the term of the contract no matter how long your book(s) are in print.”

So I signed on, eagerly (subsequently ignoring a request for a full manuscript from Pema Browne). Over the next six months, I received regular correspondence from Ms. Fine, detailing her activities on my behalf. I’d like to include some excerpts here, if y’all don’t mind, because I find them fascinating now, and I’m hoping that it might be a little bit educational for some of the un-agented writers reading my blog.

Keep in mind – my book sucked.

__________________________


Dear Ray,

I wish this could be your notice that MEGA House has offered a super advance, but it’s not. We’ve contacted Royal Fireworks Press, but they declined publication. Your work is presently being read at Orchard Boods, Bantam Books for Young Readers, Holiday House, Inc., Avon Flare Books and Chronicle Books. There are more publishers we will contact.

Don’t fret. More often than not finding a publisher takes time. Sooner or later an editor will recognize how good your work truly is. We’ll contact you as soon as we get a positive response from a publisher.

__________________________


Dear Ray,

In addition to the publishers we’ve listed I our last letter, your work has also been sent to Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers and Bain Bridge Books.

If any suggestions or critiques are made from an editor, we’ll pass along the info. We’re still waiting for an offer to be made. You’ll receive a call once we do.

__________________________


Dear Ray,

Our agreement is nearly completed and it’s time for each of us to re-evaluate our situation. I still feel as strong about [My Crappy Book] as when we first began. Your work has a lot to offer and I’d like to continue trying to get your work on the market. I’m disappointed no publisher has selected your work but there are still contacts that can be made if you are willing.

I hope you’ll consider one more attempt. I have enclosed another agreement. Sign and return one copy along with your check and I’ll proceed in my efforts.

__________________________


Normally I love the smell of coffee in the morning, but when I woke up and smelled it in February of 2000, it made me want to vomit. (upchuck, hurl, spew – but not ralph)

I’d been scammed.

This coincided, almost to the day, with finding out that the number of children I’d sired was about to double. We were about to have two new babies, the publishing industry was slimy and cruel, and with a heart full of shattered dreams, I decided to give up on writing and focus on my family.

Don’t feel bad, y’all. You know how this story ends. After a five year hiatus, I went on to write nine more books, each a little better than the last, until I finally landed a kick-ass agent, Ethan Ellenberg. Oooo… did he just finally tell us his agent’s name?

Soon, actual copies of my book will be going to actual publishers where one will eventually be accepted. Soon it will be printed on actual paper and sent to actual bookstores and put in the hands of actual readers – actual money will flow in multiple directions. What makes me so sure?

Because I’ve finally learned the difference between agent listings and actual research.

Just for the hell of it, skip commenting and go right now to Google. Do a search on Southeast Literary Agency, and then Ethan Ellenberg. I want all of my un-agented writer friends to learn from my ignorance, to not repeat my sad mistake: you cannot stop with the name and the address of any agent that claims to represent your genre. You’ve got to go directly to the agency’s websites. You’ve got to find out what they’ve published, who their clients are, if their books are self-published or available in traditional bookstores, cuz Debbie Fine listed multiple titles and authors she’d brokered deals for. But it was a toilet full of steaming lies.

Debbie Fine, of Southeast Literary Agency, was such a gifted scammer, that Writer Beware eventually awarded her the number eighteen spot on their 20 Worst Agents list.

Mr. Ellenberg, on the other hand, has an actual publishing history.

I wish I could say I was proud to have been on both ends of the spectrum.

Three blog-worthy items.

(Picasa 3 rocks. Just so you know.)

Item #1: She's So Unusual.

This is Paige, my unique child. The number one reason I'm blogging today is to share with you this piece of correspondance I found sitting on our coffee table this morning. But first, a coffee table note from earlier in the week.

"Dear Santa I just want to say merry Christmas. P.S. I hope my brown stuff dog is fixed and I reall want it to look brand new. Here it is. From Paige Veen. Was I a good girl?"

The deal is, she's figured out that Santa's got a whole big workshop where he works on toys, so it only stands to reason, if the ear falls off your favorite 'stuff dog', sweet talk the man in red, and presto... free toy repairs.

And today:

Paige's handwriting: "Dear Santa can you come to my school pleas? Can you also write your anser right under these qustins pleas?"

Chantze's handwriting: "No I will not, I hate kids and school and really hate little girls that tell me to right this crap so stop asking."

I'm so proud of my son. It's exactly what I would have written if I'd found the note first.

Paige's handwriting (on back): "P.S. If I'm still coughing on Christmas can you get me cogh drops so I don't cought pleas?"

Item #2: Prescription for Ham.

Just thought I'd share this cuz it's had me chuckling for a few days now. One of the doctors I work with is super-rich, and super-busy, and super-generous, but super-busy. CRAZY busy. The man seems to like working with me and he's always sure to ask about my family, although I know he'll never remember their names. But that's okay. He makes up for it with that generousity thing I mentioned. Friday afternoon, at the end of our last surgery together, he's charting in the corner of the operating room and he's got his prescription pad out. He says, "Hey Ray, do you and your family like to eat ham?" (He's a foreigner, did I mention?) Then he's holding out a little slip of paper, "You take this to my butcher, he knows me, he will give you a nice ham."

He had honest-to-God written 'ham for Christmas' on one of his scripts. I was like, "Dude, did you just write me a prescription for meat?"

Item #3: Weather recap.


This was probably really irresponsible, but the snow was so high on my back deck, I had to grab the closest thing to demonstrate the scale of the depth. This photo probably cost me my best guitar. (The bottom edge that you can see -- that's eighteen inches up from my carpet -- crazy, no?)

Armed with only a shovel

There's a road out there somewhere, and it's up to me to find it.

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Edited to show you this:

Because I feel the subject's expression was organic to a discussion of the emotional impact of the piece.

A Very Veenie Christmas 2008

Your world is about to change

I feel a new story idea coming on. Whenever I fixate on something and start compulsively researching it, it turns into a story. One time it was Irish faeries, another time it was paranormal abilities, once it was angels, recently it was lucid dreaming, and now -- robots. I can't get them out of my head. They're all blinking and whirring and marching their way relentlessly through my brain, and God help me, I don't want them to stop.

Anyhow, I know it's beyond nerdy, so I won't bore you too much, but here are some of my faves. From clockwise upper left to right: Actroid (an amazingly lifelike interactive android), Mr. Asiho the bartending robot, cheeky Nao, Sony's Qrio (Youtube 'Qrio', those suckers can dance), Toyota's violin player (they've got an awesome robot band), Robosapien V2, Rovio (a fairly cheap wi-fi spy robot), and Honda's loveable little Asimo.







Assuming you took the time to read the whole list, you're probably thorougly convinced of my dorkableness now. If not, you soon will be. This thing here is actually a robotic exoskeleton that senses nueral pulses and enhances skeletal muscle movement. It's called HAL (human-assisted limb), and it's nearly ready to be marketed for the elderly and the disabled. So yeah, no more flipping the bird as you pass silver-haired drivers -- they're likely to chase your car down on foot, rip your door off, and pound your face to goo.

On a less violent subject, have y'all seen 'I-Robot' with Will Smith? It's loosely based on an old Asimov tale, but it paints a very likely picture of the not-so-distant future. In the next twenty years, robots are going to transform our society just like the automobile, and the television, and the computer, and when I say society, I mean our homes: our day-to-day lives. I mean your house. Don't believe me? Thirty-five years ago it was predicted that by the year 2000, computers would be in practically every device we use, and people laughed. Well who's laughing now, sucka? Bill Gates, that's who. (props to Bryan for borrowing his word)

Anyhow, I think that's where my story's gonna happen -- right on the cusp of the transformation.

The main character will have gotten rich by investing in robot technology and live in a replica of Obrien's tower where robotic chessman serve his every whim. But he'll have chronic hiccups.

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THIS IS DEFINITELY ON MY CHRISTMAS LIST

Oh yeah.

Follow my butt.

Sorry about the title. I just took the three most commonly used words from the following post and strung them together to synthesize a functional heading.

So did you know Blogger has figured out a way for you to follow yourself? Pretty amazing, huh? Of course I'm a little nervous having me following because I know how I think and I'm not always mentally polite. Good thing I know I'm not gay because now I don't have to worry about me looking at my butt. 'Butt' who am I kidding. Me and I both know that I don't have any butt to speak of. Maybe as I'm following myself I could call out helpful advice regarding my gluteal posture.

"Step harder with the heel, Ray, makes the cheeks squarer."

"Like this?"

"No, not like that, now your pants look like a deflated balloon."

"Like this?"

"Oh yeah... that's sexy."

"Thanks, dog."

The Anatomy of a Hiccup

And I wish I had something interesting to back that up. I just thought it would be a good title. Of course, I do have hiccups -- had them since early yesterday afternoon. How fun is that? I didn't even freaking know you could have freaking hiccups that last throughout the freaking night. When I opened my eyes this morning, I was like, "Are they gone?............................urp."

So life stinks. Not sure how productive I'll be today cuz this is really, REALLY annoying. I apologize to my non-biscuit friends if this puts me behind schedule (and I apoligize doubly if 'biscuit' is a secret code-word that should not be used in public places like blogs).

And you know, I can't imagine going to work like this. "Hey, this is Ray, um.... yeah, I'm not gonna make it in today -- I have the hiccups."

Of course, for those of you who don't know, I work in surgery. I put my hands inside of people's cut-open bodies. Somehow hiccups seem like they would be in really bad form, professionally speaking. I can only imagine one worse possible occupation for a person with chronic hiccups -- bomb-defuser.

Thanks to Shorty, Vee and Hubby, who tried to help me with home remedies last night. After sticking my fingers in my nose and ears, ingesting everything from sugar to apple pucker, lying on my face and back, and drinking six or seven glasses of water, I feel like there's nothing I haven't tried. But I do appreciate the suggestions. (side note: were they just trying to get me to do a bunch of stupid things so they could laugh about me when I left?)

Still open to suggestions.