Well, you know, I'm feeling rather prickly. Prickly with rage, I suppose.

And thanks.

Wow, Liese.

And for my mememe writers' quandary of the evening....

Having gotten extensive expert feedback (including from our own AmyLiz) on my first novel (Lucy), I've concluded that it's beautifully written, but has enough conceptual flaws that it probably won't sell as is, and I'm not sure I'd even want it to, because it's not the best work I'm capable of. The quandary is what to do about it:

1. I could do nothing. Few authors sell their first novels anyway. I stick it in a box under my bed (actually it already is in a box under the love seat in the living room) and work on making my next novel better. Thing is, I'm already excited about writing Anna, and about doing preliminary research and drabbles here and there for my next (working title Heart of Oak). Fixing Lucy might slow my momentum. It's not like I don't have enough on my plate, between baby and novels and freelancing.

2. I could fix it. I just had a couple of ideas that I think would strengthen it immensely. And since Anna is a sequel to Lucy (though in keeping with romance tradition I'm making sure it makes sense as a standalone), if I rework the one and finish the other, I'll have not one but two strong books to offer editors--and, as a bonus, they'll be connected! Also, I poured a lot of time and a big chunk of my heart into Lucy. It seems a shame not to do what it takes to make it a marketable novel. The question is how to add that to the mix of everything else I've got going on without losing all the lovely momentum I've got going on Anna.

Susan, In your position I would:

Finish Anna while outlining and making notes for Oak. While you're shopping Anna fix Lucy, continuing to make notes for Oak. When Lucy's ready to be shopped, you'll have Oak half-done, and probably entirely skip the 1st draft stage.

Also, if you get stale on one project, you'll have something else to work on till the spark re-ignites.

I got maybe five hours of sleep last night, between lying awake an hour after I went to bed thinking about the changes I could make, and then waking up an hour before the alarm and thinking some more.

Beverly, I like your suggestion, though there's this part of me that wants to fix Lucy NOW, because I've got this writers conference in three weeks, and it just breaks my heart to think of not having something to market to the editors and agents there. I'm not so insane as to think I could completely rework a 100,000-word novel in three weeks, but I could certainly manage the first three chapters, and that's as much of a partial as anyone ever wants. Then I'd keep working at it so that if anyone asked for the full, hopefully I'd have it ready by then.

I know that's crazy talk, but, but....the editors and agents, they're RIGHT THERE. And if they work with what your write at all, they ALWAYS ask for a partial, and you get to put "requested material" on it and bypass the slushpile! t /impatient

OK. Anyway. Since the changes I'm planning for Lucy impact Anna, the least I'm going to do is sit down today and do a rough outline of the new Lucy. And then, well, we'll see.

For now I need to feed a baby and get ready for the Seattle RWA meeting--maybe I can get some more ideas there.

I speak as a complete publishing amateur, of course. But I know what happens when I slog away at something while another project is on fire in my head. The work I do on the primary project is dull, and by the time I get to the second, the fire's dimmed or gone out. So I say, let Anna simmer for a bit and work on Lucy, at least short-term.

I talked about it with some of the more seasoned writers at the meeting today, lamenting that I hadn't had this epiphany several months ago. They all said, "Go ahead and start editing, and at your editor and agent appointments, tell them you've completed a manuscript and are X% through a major revision that you expect to complete by Y date." The response will probably be either, "Go ahead and send us your first three chapters," or "Just submit it when you're finished, and make sure to remind us where we met."

So I'm going to go for it. I think it'll make both books stronger. I'm going to get started today as soon as I've finished my day's quota on my more immediately paying projects.

Good on you.

This bells topic has been really inspirational...I have a few drabbles:

Alarm Bells

She gasps upright in bed, her entire skull ringing with the fire alarm. Her eyes are pulsating in time with its screams. Where's the light, where's her shoes, where's the door?

Yank open the door, rush into the hallway, pause in confusion. Which way is best? No one in the hallway, God, is everyone already out? Another door opens, another resident steps out, wearing a robe and slippers, yawning, pausing to lock the door. How can she be so calm?

She strolls past, as other doors begin to open, people casually wander by, like they were walking to breakfast. "Don't worry", says one, noticing her wide eyed stare, "you'll get used to them. Stupid drunks pull the fire alarm all the time".

As she leaves the building, she notices the broken beer bottle underneath the red pull station. Her heart slows, slightly.

Mediation Chime

We gather as we do every week, making small talk, finding our place on the floor, setting up our cushions just so. We settle into place, adjusting knees, creaking our necks, clearing our throats so that we don't cough and disrupt everyone else. The coffee machine begins its low mutterings for the after-meditation discussion.

At the front of the room he sits facing us, smiling, chatting with one or two folks as we get ready. The delicate hammer and bowl sit beside him. As we quiet down, he picks up the hammer, looks over the room once more, and looks down at the bowl. He strikes it once, sharply, and the rich warm sound rings through the room, calling us to awaken.

We breathe.

This one needed its own post.

The Bells of Mourning

It is sunny, and cold. The hearse moves through the small town, my family and I following behind. My family minus one.

The white church at the top of the hill is the one I attended every Sunday when I lived at home, and my parents still attend. We get out of the car and the pallbearers, cousins and friends, gather behind the hearse to carry out their function. I worry about the many stairs, but they carry my sister gracefully, carefully, heads down.

My mother reaches for me. I hold my arm around her shoulder and take my father's hand. We follow my sister up the stairs, to begin saying goodbye. The bells ring out slowly, the bells of mourning following us into this ritual, this remembering, this farewell