Write About Now

The Perks

It's not all suffering, this writing gig. Like when the nice folks at Bethany House took their authors at ACFW to a privately catered fine dining affair. Here the chefs engage in some confectionary blowtorching. If a future novel of mine features one of these mini flamethrowers as a weapon, don't be surprised.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Aspiring novelists want to get published, and that means getting the attention of an editor. Working novelists want to keep publishing, and that means getting the attention of an audience. So wherever we're at, we're always seeking attention, and most of us have conflicted feelings about that.

Which is funny, because most of us are egotists.

Here's the thing. We want the attention, we just feel bad about soliciting it. We want to be noticed, but not because we're jumping up and down. Recognition should come based on merit. But since no one will discover your merit without first hearing about you, some self-promotion seems mandatory.

Nobody likes it, though. Some of us claim that we're no good at it, but the real reason self-promotion is unpopular is because promoting yourself is unseemly. Writers, as workers of the mind, often have residual feelings of aristocracy. In the sixteenth century, courtly poets circulated their work in manuscript rather than publishing, because to publish would be to engage in trade, and it was more important to look knightly than artistic. If these manuscripts somehow fell into the hands of unscrupulous printers (and what other kind are there?) then so be it. By not seeking fame and profit, one could with unblemished honor enjoy it to the hilt.

We may not confuse ourselves with nobility, but there is still a taint associated with commerce. Get a group of writers together and you find the people they're really suspicious of are the suits, the corporate sell-outs, the working stiffs. If an author behaves too much like one of them -- hawking his books too aggressively, being too obvious in his marketing, appealing too much to the lowest common denominator in his craft -- we can't help looking down our noses. Sure, we might envy the success that results, but is it really worth it at such a price?

Okay, so I'm exaggerating a bit. But you can see there's a little truth to this, right? I can. I want to be promoted, but I don't want to do the promoting, if for no other reason than that if it's me doing it, the praise seems suspect. To be credible, I need third party validation, which means somebody else needs to do the work. Ideally, someone who loves my writing, but if no one like that turns up, there are hirelings on hand who, like professional mourners, are willing to give the impression there's an entourage.

Agents and Conferences

My agent Chip MacGregor writes a fascinating blog, where he tackles all sorts of practical questions -- including a recent one about why agents go to conferences. Are they really looking for new clients? Chip explains the process:

"...for an established agent, the conference will usually fly them in, ask them to meet with 15-to-25 writers, speak at a couple of workshops, maybe participate on a panel or lead an ongoing class, and then pay them about $300. That's just not much money for a couple days of my life (put into real-world terms, I'd only have to do one $2000 contract to earn that sort of money). It's the one-on-one appointments that really wear on you -- especially when you face an over-eager wannabe author with a bad idea who doesn't want to listen to your ideas for improving his work. Still, I enjoy the give-and-take with most writers, it often gives me a chance to visit with authors I represent who live in the area, and you're right -- there's always the possibility that I'll see a dynamite idea or meet a great writer at a conference."

He goes on to give several examples, including our own meeting a couple of years ago at the ACFW conference, which led to Chip's representing me. Yes, agents who attend conferences are looking to represent new clients -- but they still need to be impressed (or to put it another way, hooked). If you ask me, a one-on-one meeting with an agent is the most important thing you'll do at a conference . . . so don't over-think it. When Chip and I met, we chatted about medieval church history. It never entered my head that he'd be interested in representing me. But not long after, he got in touch asking to read my manuscript, and the rest is history. Not having a 'strategy,' just being yourself -- this is the way to go. But you won't have an opportunity for nonchalant brilliance if you don't go to the conference.

Also, if you're looking for ways to make money in publishing -- by doing things other than publishing -- follow the link above and see Chip's first Q & A, which distinguishes between work you do for experience and work you do for income. Good stuff.

What We Can Learn from Calvin

My agent is a great guy. One of the great things about him is that, after attending the Calvin Festival (and taking me to dinner with Lisa Samson and Claudia Burney, an unforgettable experience), he jotted down some notes about what other conferences could learn from Calvin. This saves me the trouble of doing it myself. And I quote:

Many of the writers' conferences may not be able to afford to bring in quite so many famous writers, but there are a couple things they could emulate: Have more public conversations with writers. Don't feel you've got to ask a novelist to give a workshop -- many of us would prefer the chance to just sit and listen to them talk, so ask a good interviewer to chat them up in front of an audience. Have more public readings. One of the time-tested events at writing conferences is to have an author show up and read passages from his or her novel or nonfiction book. Why so many contemporary conferences have moved away from this practice is a mystery. Ask academics to participate. There were a number of English professors at this conference, and it raises the level of discussion at a conference. I've been teaching a couple classes in the Professional Writing Program at Taylor University this year, and I've been reminded that profs love the chance to share their materials with someone besides colleagues and students. Use films and music to supplement the lectures. The Calvin conference filled their evenings with four films, three open-mike poetry gatherings, two concerts, a jazz verspers service, and a worship service led by a pastor/author. They also presented a play one afternoon. It wouldn't be too hard to schedule a variety of these types of things at a writing conference that takes place at a college or in a larger city.

This year, it seemed like one of the recurring conversations I had was: "Why is the Calvin Festival better than Conference X, Y, or Z?" The caliber of presenters was one thing, naturally, but Chip hits on the others. Although people often describe Calvin as a festival for readers, it's also a great venue for writers. It reflects the fact that writing is learned, not so much in the classroom, but from reading and thinking about what you've read. Calvin affords a better opportunity to do this than any event I've attended. It's not perfect, but it has plenty to teach.

Books First, Then Brand -- Not the Other Way Around

Branding. The latest concept to trickle down into the writing world. Every writer now, in addition to writing, must build a brand. Build it and never stray forever after beyond its narrow (though hopefully long) shadow. And how does one build one's brand? You need a motto. Preferably a sentence fragment. In italics.

Like most trickle-down concepts, branding is worth consideration. But when it comes to practical application, there's often something lost in the process. As a result, a lot of really laughable nonsense passes under the banner of branding (like the aforementioned catch-phrases). So what's my formula? It's simple.

Put yourself on the page. Consistently. Find a way to describe the result. Italics optional.

In other words, the brand should emerge from the writing, not the other way around. Write the best you can, and you'll please readers in a particular set of ways. That network of pleasure forms future expectations, and if you deliver on those hopes (that's where the consistency comes in), you get a reputation. Your brand distills that reputation and starts to influence your future choices. If you stop fulfilling on expectations, or fulfill a different set of them, you'll confront the question of whether this helps or hurts your brand.

On Business Cards

The Calvin Festival of Faith & Writing starts next week. The schedule looks interesting, but the top priority at events like this is always networking, which is why I spent the morning working on a new business card. All other preparation -- running copies of proposals, printing promo postcards, designing "one-sheets" -- is pretty much wasted effort. I say, give them a pass. But business cards are essential.

If you're having cards made, here's some advice:

Get professional help. I'm always surprised how many writers I meet have a background in design. If you're not one of them, though, don't rely on consumer software or do-it-yourself card templates. Go to a professional. The worse thing you can do is hand out cheesy, handmade business cards with perforated edges and quill pen clip-art. You're better off not having cards than having bad ones.

Keep it simple. Don't try to do too much with your card. I've gone through three designs in as many years, always unhappy with the result. Why? Because I over-complicated the design. I squeezed in contact info, an author photo, a book cover photo with ordering information, and whatever else I had room for. The latest version strips things down. Less is more. By the same token, don't print 1,000 cards when the odds are you'll want to make changes before you've handed out 50. I get mine through Overnight Prints, 100 at a time. That way if I decide to do some tweaking, I'm out $16, not $100 or more.

Don't embarrass yourself. About that author photo. Everybody told me my card should have one, so that after the event people could match my face to my name. But I didn't feel 100% about it, and every time I handed those cards out, I felt like an over-aggressive realtor. Now that I'm writing crime, I thought it would be cool to have cards that invoked the genre -- blood spatters, grunge fonts, a silhouette of a dude tied to a chair -- an ironic, over-the-top look. But I felt uneasy about the result, so (taking a cue from earlier experience) I nixed it.

Be selective with information and distribution. In other words, you don't have to all your phone numbers, e-mail addresses, your Facebook, your MySpace, your Amazon wishlist, and your Flickr page. The card is intended for editors, not stalkers. Speaking of which, there are a lot of folks you might meet at a conference who have no business being able to contact you after the fact. Don't feel the need to hand out cards willy-nilly, especially if (as with many writers) your home address and phone are on the card.

Anyway .... keep those principles in mind, and you should do all right. One more thing. I said everything besides business cards was a waste. Here's why: at a conference, you're going to be lugging around plenty of stuff, and so is everybody else. At Art & Soul back in 2004, I kept print-outs of my work-in-progress with me at all times in case I met someone who wanted to read it. In the pantheon of bad ideas, that was right up there. I found the same thing at ACFW in 2006. I had about fifty "one-sheets" in my briefcase, single page thumbnails of the various projects I might want to pitch. By the end of the weekend, I handed out exactly one of them. (And held onto the half-dozen print-outs of the full proposal for one of the novels.) The only printed piece I've ever handed out consistently is my business card -- and that's the only thing people have handed me. If an editor wants to see your proposal, he'll hand you a card and say, "Mail it to me." Nobody wants to carry around more paper than necessary.

Submissions Advice from Mike Duran

Putting in time as an acquisitions editor can be invaluable for authors. It gives you a glimpse of the other side. Mike Duran has been reading submissions for Coach's Midnight Diner, which has prompted him to share some of the lessons learned. His advice is well worth reading. (He even quotes from yours truly.) This bit is so good it deserves to be engraved in marble:

"The best stories are the ones that need the least editing. I’m surprised how many authors believe their job is to just get the story out there; the editor’s job, they think, is to clean it up. No, no, no! This freak wants to do as little work as possible. A story must be pretty damn good for an editor to go back to the author and ask for a rewrite. If you can’t deliver a product that requires minimal, if any, changes on the part of the editor, don’t send it."

No editor worth his salt is going to turn down a work of genius because of a few typos -- but let's face it, most of us aren't geniuses and we need all the help we can get. When I wear the editorial hat, I'm not looking for work with promise. I'm looking for stories whose promises are delivered on the page. I've turned down plenty of things in my time that could have been good with some work. As an author, you can't expect an editor to function as an exalted critique partner, giving you notes on how to make your story publishable. There are too many people sending out polished work. So if you want to improve your odds, take a look at Mike's advice. Your editors will thank you.

Writing It Out By Hand

It's a safe bet that most of us these days write with computers. A few hold-outs still brag about their love affair with the typewriter -- but then, that's the sort of thing you have to brag about, just to drown out that clacking noise. The people I really admire, though, are the ones who write everything out by hand.

It's not as quixotic as it might seem. Pen and paper are handy and conveniently carried. They don't run out of batteries, either. No one is likely to steal them from you on the bus because they're terribly inexpensive.

The objection to writing things out in Old School manner is that you only have to re-type them when it's time to submit. But is that really a bad thing?

Watching the Trends Go By

Chip MacGregor, literary agent extraordinaire -- and I'm not just saying that because he represents yours truly -- has posted an interesting list of "What's Working, What's Not" in publishing these days. As always, the trends are both encouraging (craft is improving) and depressing (celebrity sells). Sadly, it looks as if the odds of my holiday-themed George W. Bush Study Bible finding a place on the shelves are slim.

Online Submissions

Hard copies aren't exactly a thing of the past, but more and more people have made peace with online submissions. At Relief Journal, we've embraced them. For a publication with editors working all over the country, an electronic workflow makes a whole lot of sense. We can move submissions back and forth through the ether without churning up a small forest or depleting the national supply of novelty stamps. Unfortunately, each new leap forward brings with it a set of new challenges. The industrial revolution gave us the smoke stack, and the technological revolution has burdened us with formatting problems.

Paper is a univeral medium. When you print your manuscript, ink is applied to paper and the results look the same to everyone who looks. It doesn't matter if you used Microsoft Word, WordPerfect, Apple's Pages or a simple text editor to type the story, once it's on paper there are no compatibility issues. Online submissions are different. The file you send is either your original word processing document or an export from your software to a (hopefully) compatible format. The editor on the other end of the tether may or may not be able to open your file, and if he does, the file may or may not retain the proper formatting (assuming you formatted it correctly to begin with).