querying – Flights of Fancy

The sheep have been shorn. Once round balls of gray fluff, they transformed in the space of a morning to scrawny pink creatures half their former size. Their bellies still bulge with approaching babies, but otherwise they seem mere skin and bones. When I first saw them from a distance, I thought they were lambs.

The thing is, winter isn’t yet over. Though it must feel good to be rid of all that woolly weight during the ever-strengthening noon sun, how are those sheep going to feel in the windblown 15-deg-F cold that’s coming in a few days? Just thinking about it from within the warmth of my house and my many layers of clothing makes me shiver. And it makes me glad I’m not a sheep.

*When Tock & I go outside in the winter, we have to layer up and keep moving to stay warm!*

Happy as I am to be human, I feel as if the sheep shearer pays me unexpected visits, too. On a surprisingly frequent basis, I am ripped down to my very essence. I’m forced to take a good hard look inside: at who I am, what I’ve done, and what I’m going to do about it. (Note: I’m talking metaphorically here, not physically—except for my recent scalp-and-hair-ripping surgical experience that I hope never to repeat.)

The arduous “shearing” process probably happens to me a lot because I’m a writer, and the writing life bears a remarkable similarity to a newly shorn sheep. No sooner do I celebrate finishing Draft 1 of a manuscript, for instance, than I must make an abrupt transition to some other aspect of writing. Querying an older manuscript, for instance—matching myself to agents and putting together query packages in which I promote myself and my story as much as possible—such fun! (if you’re a writer, I hope you detected the high level of sarcasm). Or, ooh, here’s another shift: from drafting to the formidable process of editing a new manuscript.

This transition between creation and revision happened to me the day the sheep were shorn, and boy, could I relate to them. I felt as though I were stepping from my comfortable writing cave into the bright, cold world, clutching the story I’d just birthed to my belly, knowing it was time to take a good hard look at it, to strip it down to its bones and examine every aspect of plot and character, to figure out what works and what doesn’t.

Thing is, I adore revision. Being done with a first draft infuses me with the same sense of relief the sheep must feel. I can write! Enough to complete a whole novel! It’s only the transition from the initial writing to the tearing-down and reconstruction of it that’s difficult. I know that once I get into the routine of re-reading, of searching for inconsistencies and re-writing those places, I will get used to my new thin skin and begin to bulk it up once more. I guess the same can be said for switching gears from writing or editing to querying, but less so. Let’s just say I’m grateful that a bout of querying doesn’t take nearly as long as those other parts of the process.

Since no post of mine feels complete without the inclusion of my dog, I’d like to add that he, too, finds changing gears shocking. I once trained Tock to lie down in the middle of a recall. He’d be bounding my way, expecting a treat, when he’d hear the command to stop before reaching me. When I first did this, he ignored me and continued running, assuming I’d misspoken, no doubt. Granted, the second command was confusing because it ran counter to the strong instant recall he’d formerly been trained. But when no treat emerged from my pocket for the recall, he started to realize that he needed to heed the change in orders. He’d slow to a trot, then a walk, then maybe a stop a few feet away from me. Only after further training did he learn to stop fairly quickly as soon as he heard the command. So it can be done, even with a dog who is not the brightest of border collies. It’s a similar behavior to the one skilled herding dogs are trained to perform when they’re galloping toward a flock of sheep. An even more advanced behavior these working dogs learn is to stop mid-gallop and “look back” for a missing sheep or group of sheep. Imagine the intelligence and drive it would take to abandon the first flock and head off for a second one that might not even be visible.

Dog starting to lie down during a recall — *Tock is told to lie down mid-recall. This is hard for him!*

The good news is that dogs can indeed learn how to handle shifts in their established routines. The shorn sheep have also accepted their big lifestyle change (though I’m pretty sure they’re going to be shivering a bit during the coming cold snap). Not that they had any choice in their shearing, but I like to think they’re walking with an extra bounce in their step now that they don’t weigh so much. And if they can, surely we can, too. So if it’s time, writers, move on! Wrap your arms around your torso to bolster your spirits, and get to those queries, or to that revision, or maybe to dreaming up a whole new story and putting pen to paper once again. The good thing about being a human rather than a sheep is that you get to decide which it’s going to be.

Sheep with big wool coats in a snowy field — *Fluffy warm sheep a few weeks prior to shearing.*

Happy Tales!

Have you ever felt as though you’re floundering, uncertain what to work on next? Perhaps (1) you’ve finally finished that first draft after months (years!) of effort, let it sit for weeks (months!), and now haven’t any idea what to do with it. Or (2) you’ve perfected your story (Seven revisions! Countless brainstorming sessions with critique partners!), to the point that you know if you work on it any more it’s only going to get worse—but the thought of querying is enough to freeze you from the inside out. Or (3) maybe you’re lucky enough to have moved past those hurdles and you’re actively querying, negotiating, revising (again!), publishing, or marketing, but everyone* wants to know what’s next and your muse isn’t merely hiding, it seems to have jumped off a cliff and swum out to sea. *By “everyone,” I mean you, plus at least one other person, if you’re lucky.

mossy tree limb stretching over a creek — *Photo credit: K Mitch Hodge*

Never fear. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that if you haven’t experienced at least one of these gut-wrenching dilemmas, you’re not a writer. In fact, I might as well wobble my way to the end of that bouncy branch and say that if you haven’t experienced this in any pursuit you love, then you haven’t lived.

So … let’s address Dilemma #1, when you’re stymied after finishing your first draft. Well, I have a little confession to make. I never succeed in letting my story sit for long before transitioning into Editorial Mode. I have such an over-zealous work ethic that I can’t help but jump almost immediately into revising what I wrote, the same way I feel compelled to walk my dog every single day despite rain or shine, wind or blizzard.

Dog waiting for me on snowy walk — *Tock and I enjoy our walk no matter the weather.*

Though my turnaround from writing to editing is quick, the process I use is gentle. This is because my revisions don’t begin with actual changes. Instead, I start with something that is so fun I want to do it. I look forward to it, the same way Tock faceplants into his bowl of breakfast or dinner kibble.

And what is that super fun step? Kind of like a dog sniffing where they peed the previous day, I get to read what I wrote. At last, I can see my story as a whole piece rather than merely a painful collection of sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. With sort-of completed arcs of character and plot, my story sort-of resembles what someone might want to read someday. It shows me that though I may yet have lots of work ahead, I wrote a story. I did it! Hooray for me! It’s a major confidence booster—and we introverted, insecure writers need all the ego boosting we can get. Most importantly, I make notes as I read on where the world and characters need development, where the plot drops into sinkholes, where the pacing sags or speeds too fast, and where things simply don’t make sense. These notes, in turn, give me a launching point from which I can step into real revisions. And after this full immersion in my manuscript, I not only can revise it, I want to!

a mysterious hole in the water, into which the water is plunging — *Spotting holes in the plot is the first step. Photo credit: Simon Hurry*

But what happens once you’ve revised so much that you’re sick of it? I realize that I’ve gotten to this point when I start to question why I wrote the darned thing in the first place. It’s best if you don’t nitpick at it quite that long. Before all pride and joy in your creation vanishes, accept that it’s time to move on. Assuming you want to publish traditionally, this brings us to Dilemma #2.

Querying.

Tense, dirty soldier hiding in the grass — *Photo credit: Sander Sammy*

To me, this is the most terrifying, blood-shedding step in a writer’s life. You only get one chance with most literary agents to put your stuff in front of them, and if they reject you, you can never again try to persuade them to take on that particular manuscript. Even the rejections themselves are hard to bear – mostly form letters or no response at all. I don’t know which is worse: knowing with certainty that it’s a brutal “no thanks,” or not knowing and thus retaining some hope until, months later, you finally have to mark it down as a rejection by default.

I have nightmares about querying. I think it’s safe to say that prostrating myself in front of an agent is my least favorite activity on the planet. So what do I do? As so often is the case with me, I look to my dog for inspiration. He’s always been a scaredy-pup, startling at big birds flying overhead, or a skunk waddling out of the bushes like happened last week (did Tock investigate and get sprayed? Thankfully, no. He scurried past it and waited for me a respectful distance away). He used to worry about swimming, standing for minutes on end gazing forlornly at a stick in the water just out of his reach. He still takes his time, studying the stick for a few seconds to a minute before paddling out to it. But he’s learned to swim farther and farther these past couple years, and eventually retrieves the sticks, every time.

dog staring at stick in water a few feet away

dog has swum to the stick and captured it!

The most frightening thing that Tock recently experienced was when a large unleashed dog charged down the trail toward us and jumped on him. Not in a friendly way. In a split second, the dog had my poor puppy on his back and was standing over him, snarling and lunging at Tock’s neck. In the next split second, I got over my shock at what had just happened and called for Tock to come to me. He wriggled out from beneath the dog, ran to me (fortunately uninjured), and we hurried away. I was so anxious to make his experience seem less stressful than it surely was that I didn’t even stick around to chastise the aggressive dog’s owner, but walked briskly away, rewarding Tock with treats all the while for his smart decision. But I worried that now Tock would view meeting new dogs the same way I view querying: One hundred percent terrifying, one hundred percent something to be avoided forever.

a yellow-eyed, prick-eared beast stares at the viewer from the dark

Still, I knew that Tock didn’t want to give up his daily walk due to fear of a savage beast, the same way I don’t want to abandon my dream of becoming traditionally published. We headed out the next morning—a little more watchful, a little more careful (I leashed Tock when we saw another dog approaching in case he’d developed fear aggression as a result of the attack, and kept his voluntary encounters very short). Tock was tentative that day, meeting dogs with his tail at half-mast rather than upright, silent rather than emitting the tiny happy whimpers he usually produces. By day two, his tail was back up, and by day three, he was whining with excitement again. He did it! He overcame his worries about another random attack. Hooray for Tock!

And if my darling boy can put himself back out there despite his fear, so can I. No matter how many rejections I’ve suffered in the past, I simply need to pick out my preferred agents, organize and tailor my queries to them, and hit send. It’s a psychological hurdle that I must overcome—will overcome—for my latest manuscript if I ever want a shot at publication in the traditional way. The worst that will happen is another form letter. It’s not like I’m going to get bitten in the neck by some long-canined, drooling, bloodthirsty monster.

Right?

Happy Tales!

Note: Since I’ve already addressed Dilemma #3—writing something new—in a different post, I won’t address it here (see Stepping Out of Your Comfort Zone, https://substack.com/home/post/p-137672913e).

Tag: querying

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