Liza Nash Taylor's Blog

NEW YEAR, NEW ADVENTURE 2023

In which the author takes off alone, midwinter, for two weeks in England and Scotland.Bags are packed… Moniack Mhor, Scotland. Photo by Eddie Jacobs from the Flickr of Moniack Mhor.

In two weeks, I’m heading out. I’ll fly to Manchester, England and stay a week at the Arvon Writers Center in West Yorkshire, at the former home of the poet Ted Hughes. It’s called Lumb Bank and the photos look like a Jane Austen movie: rolling hills and gray stone with vines.

Photo from the Twitter account of Moniack Mhor. Lumb Bank, photo from Wikimedia.

From there, I’ll travel north to Scotland, for a week at another writers retreat called Moniack Mhor, near Inverness. From what I can see, it looks a little wilder up in the Highlands of Scotland. I’m thinking howling winds and striding over foggy moors. Bring it on, Heathcliff! I’ll end the trip with a few days in Edinburgh with an old friend who lives near Oxford.

Of course, I’m wondering, what if I’m uninspired to write? Will everything be okay back at home while I’m gone? What to take with me? How weird will it be to share a bathroom with four (or more) strangers?

More to come.

Double Feature with Liza Nash Taylor

Thank you, Bliss, Beauty & Books and Courtney Marzilli for some fun interview questions.

There is nothing I love more than a fabulous bag and a fabulous book! Liza Nash Taylor has both. A fabulous new novel, Etiquette for Runaways, which is a historical fiction delight and a Zadig and Voltaire bag chicer than most. She is my latest double feature and I am so grateful to be able to celebrate her new book! Books, like Liza’s, make a great escape!

via Amazon~

A sweeping Jazz Age tale of regret, ambition, and redemption inspired by true events, including the Great Moonshine Conspiracy Trial of 1935 and Josephine Baker’s 1925 Paris debut in Le Revue Nègre

1924. May Marshall is determined to spend the dog days of summer in self-imposed exile at her father’s farm in Keswick, Virginia. Following a naive dalliance that led to heartbreak and her expulsion from Mary Baldwin College, May returns home with a shameful secret only to find…

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The Waiting Game, Part VII- A Pandemic Lockdown Tale

1920s Film poster, from Wikimedia CommonsOn March 25, 2020, the Wall Street Journal ran an article entitled “Elegant Pajamas That Make Hibernation a Special Occasion.” It would be nice if they’d let me read it without subscribing.

Pajama Girl. That’s me. PJs at 10:31am. They are nice PJs, though. No holes, and they’re clean and all. Still. There is that lingering icky, self-judgmental little voice telling me that I ought to be doing squats. And to that little voice, I say, in a loud (but-silent-because-fam members are Zooming nearby) voice, Well, tough shit, Icky. No squats today. 

Dorothy McGuire, 1941 photo by Alfred Eisenstat for Life Magazine

Time is a suspension. Asking what day is it? was funny at first, like, a month ago.

The Icky voice has been very active while I lounge. As I write this it is stretched out across the end of the bed, poking at my unshaved ankle, telling me (again) that this would be a good time to start intermittent fasting, and that attic isn’t going to clean itself and I really should make a schedule and stick to it and walk five miles EVERY day, not every-other-day. And Icky SEES those handfuls of Jujyfruits and I should be writing pre-publication essays and blog posts. (!) And really, Liza, TWO glasses of wine are enough.

With a deft foot movement, I shove Icky backward, off the bed, out of my sight and as I hear the small thud and expiring whoosh, I wonder, How is my supply of Hot Tamales and Good n’ Plenty? Is it time to find a new hiding place? Is that shower visibly dirty? How many days have I worn these socks?

At a Zoom meeting of students and alumnx of my low-residence MFA program a few weeks ago, I heard, firsthand, of real hardships in these days. One current student has a husband who’s a doctor. He comes home from work and isolates in his house, separate from his family. The students worried about residency being canceled and not having a graduation ceremony. The faculty worry about student health, and probably about liability and finances, though that wasn’t discussed. I came away feeling solidarity, but also some gratitude, that my family is (so far) healthy and we have what we need. We all have those we are worried about—the elderly, and those with chronic conditions. Now, people we know are getting sick.

So, all in all, being Pajama Girl isn’t so bad.

Doris Kenyon, 1920 from Wilimedia Commons

I feel terrible for authors with books coming out right now, and in the next few months. My novel. ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS is coming out on August 18. At first, I thought all this would be over by then. Now, it doesn’t seem it will. I have a great Senior Publicist at Blackstone Publishing and Ann-Marie Nieves of Get Red PR has come on board to help with promotion and events, be they live or virtual.

I just need to get my ass in gear and keep working (Icky calls, from the floor). You paid for that webinar on email newsletters and you forgot to watch it! Look at your calendar for April! There is NOTHING there, and you forgot to watch the webinar.

But even when concentration is difficult and inspiration is fleeting, I do feel gratitude for a lot of things. I’ve been invited to appear at the Louisiana Book Festival in late October, and other book events are starting to come together. We’ve received some really nice blurbs for my novel recently. I’m so inspired by this and especially thankful that people would take the time to read my advanced reader copies and write a recommendation. In return, I’ve been knitting things for these early readers, spending some of my time on them.

Now I’m knitting a teddy bear, just because I had some brown wool and the pattern. Icky says that’s a waste of time, I need to get the house clean and write a blog post, and yo, bitch, it should be at least 800 words.

Sorry-not-sorry, Icky. Today, 691 words are enough.

Back to playing the Waiting Game.

Thanks for stopping by, and stay well, y’all.

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The Waiting Game, Part VII- CALL ME PAJAMA GIRL

[image error]1920s Film poster, from Wikimedia Commons



On March 25, the Wall Street Journal ran an article entitled “Elegant Pajamas That Make Hibernation a Special Occasion.” It would be super-nice if they’d let me read it without subscribing.

Pajama Girl. That’s me. PJs at 10:31am. They are nice PJs, tho. No holes, and they’re clean and all. Still. There is that lingering icky, self-judgmental little voice telling me that I ought to be doing squats. And to that little voice, I say, in a loud (but-silent-because-fam members are Zooming nearby) voice, Well, tough shit, Icky. No squats today. 

[image error]Dorothy McGuire, 1941 photo by Alfred Eisenstat for Life Magazine

Time is a suspension. Asking what day is it? was funny at first, like, a month ago.

The Icky voice has been very active while I lounge. As I write this it is stretched out across the end of the bed, poking at my unshaved ankle, telling me (again) that this would be a good time to start intermittent fasting, and that attic isn’t going to clean itself and I really should make a schedule and stick to it and walk five miles EVERY day, not every-other-day. And Icky SEES those handfuls of Jujyfruits and I should be writing pre-publication essays and blog posts. (!) And really, Liza, TWO glasses of wine is enough.

With a deft foot movement, I shove Icky backward, off the bed, out of my sight and as I hear the small thud and expiring whoosh, I wonder, How is my supply of Hot Tamales and Good n’ Plenty? Is it time to find a new hiding place? Is that shower visibly dirty? How many days have I worn these socks?

At a Zoom meeting of students and alumnx of my low-residence MFA program a few weeks ago, I heard, firsthand, of real hardships in these days. One current student has a husband who’s a doctor. He comes home from work and isolates in his house, separate from his family. The students worried about residency being canceled and not having a graduation ceremony. The faculty worry about student health, and probably about liability and finances, though that wasn’t discussed. I came away feeling solidarity, but also some gratitude, that my family is (so far) healthy and we have what we need. We all have those we are worried about—the elderly, and those with chronic conditions. Now, people we know are getting sick.

So, all in all, being Pajama Girl isn’t so bad.

[image error]Doris Kenyon, 1920 from Wilimedia Commons

I feel terrible for authors with books coming out right now, and in the next few months. My novel. ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS is coming out on August 18. At first, I thought all this would be over by then. Now, it doesn’t seem it will. I have a great Senior Publicist at Blackstone Publishing and Ann-Marie Nieves of Get Red PR has come on board to help with promotion and events, be they live or virtual.

I just need to get my ass in gear and keep working (Icky calls, from the floor). You paid for that webinar on email newsletters and you forgot to watch it! Look at your calendar for April! There is NOTHING there, and you forgot to watch the webinar.

But even when concentration is difficult and inspiration is fleeting, I do feel gratitude for a lot of things. I’ve been invited to appear at the Louisiana Book Festival in late October, and other book events are starting to come together. We’ve received some really nice blurbs for my novel recently. I’m so inspired by this and especially thankful that people would take the time to read my advanced reader copies and write a recommendation. In return, I’ve been knitting things for these early readers, spending some of my time on them.

[image error]

Now I’m knitting a teddy bear, just because I had some brown wool and the pattern. Icky says that’s a waste of time, I need to get the house clean and write a blog post, and yo, bitch, it should be at least 800 words.

Sorry-not-sorry, Icky. Today, 691 words are enough.

Back to playing the Waiting Game.

Thanks for stopping by, and stay well, y’all.

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The Waiting Game, Part VI: All Covered Up

[image error]Graphic design by Alenka Linaschke

CLICK on highlighted text for links.

If you Google the term “cover up” and click on Google Images, you will see a wide array of mumu-like garments, ranging from gauzy to heaviest terrycloth, to wear over a bathing suit, or for lounging.

[image error]Photo from Huffpost.com

If you look for a definition of “cover up” you will see this from Merriam-Webster: a planned effort to hide a dishonest, immoral, or illegal act or situation. : an action or a way of behaving that is meant to prevent people from knowing about something. 

There is a hella lot in the news lately about coverups …but let’s not go there on my blog, okeydokey? When I talk cover, I mean BOOK COVER or BOOK JACKET or whatever you choose to call them. My own has been on my mind for the last several months, perhaps obsessively.

About six weeks ago, as soon as the copy edits of my novel were complete, my publisher, Blackstone, paired me with a very talented graphic designer and artist, Alenka Linaschke. I was asked to send Alenka images of covers I like and concepts for the cover art for my forthcoming novel, ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS.

The designer looked at my Pinterest page for this novel, and asked about typefaces I like (the pros call them typefaces, not fonts, just FYI). I thought the typeface should be something Art Deco. Then I went on, expressing further design ideas I had. I had quite a lot to say about the design. I mean, a lot. Like, probably a terrifically annoying amount.

[image error]My Pinterest page for ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS

It’s really, really important to me that the cover of my book expresses what the novel is. And guess what? Since I have always worked in design in one way or another, and I am set in my ways, I have very definite opinions about what I like. So it was a very good thing that my agent, Mark Gottlieb, had asked that my publishing contract allow me to collaborate on the cover design. You know, sometimes if you ask nicely for what you want, you get it. I am learning, as I mature, to ask for more. But there I go, digressing again…

A lot of recent historical novels feature figures of women in historical settings with appropriate-era clothing, hair, etc. It’s been a popular trend to show the back of a woman’s head or figure, often partially cut off. This is so that each reader can project their own idea of how the main character(s) look.

Although there are some gorgeous covers that use this concept, I hoped that my cover would not follow that trend. I began to search for images that might suggest a vision of my main character, May Marshall. Or maybe, I thought, we should try an image of 1920s Paris, or a rural American farmhouse, or Jazz-Age New York, or a young woman in one of those settings… Of course, there are any number of possibilities.

I found an English oil portrait of a beautiful young woman the 1930s I thought would be perfect (below). I loved the way she’s turned back to face the artist, as if to say, “I’m about to do something very naughty. Want to come along?” The artist is Wilfrid Gabriel de Glehn and the subject is a young artist’s model named Barbara Gibson.

[image error]Portrait of Barbara Gibson by Wilfrid de Glehn

After weeks of searching I found the name of the gallery in London that represents DeGlehn’s estate. Although they do license the use of works by this artist, the painting I wanted to use is, at present, unaccounted for—meaning that they do not know who owns it now nor where it is and they do not possess a high-resolution image of it. I looked through auction records and in museum collections, but found crickets. So I continued to pester the gallery until they stopped responding to my emails. So that was a dead end. I was disappointed.

[image error]

I also sent some photos of the interior of the Musee Nissim de Camondo in Paris (below), which is a setting for my novel.

The gorgeous staircase is graphically interesting and has graceful lines. But I wanted my cover to have an Art-Deco vibe.

[image error]

I sent Alenka some images of book covers and some Art-Deco style fonts I like. One of those covers was from Amor Towles’s fabulous bestseller, which I talked about in my last blog post, A GENTLEMAN IN MOSCOW. I loved the photograph, which captures and holds my interest, and the clean design.

[image error]Jacques-Henri Lartigue, early color photograph

I Googled and searched Pinterest for period images, then traced the holder of the copyright, if there is one. Then, in one of my own books I found some lovely antique photographs from the 1920s and 1930s by the French photographic innovator (he invented his own color film), Jacques-Henri Lartigue. I had stumbled upon a book of Lartigue’s photographs in The Strand bookstore in New York, back in my grad school days in the early 1980s, before I worked for Ralph Lauren. I remember taking it to work and that Ralph loved Lartigue’s images.

This sent me on a Google search for more of Lartigue’s work from the twenties and thirties. There is a gorgeous Instagram Page featuring his work. It turns out that in 2000, a trove of hundreds of images by Lartigue were sold by the family of his iconic muse and model, Renée Perle, following her death in 1977. Here is a really interesting article about the relationship between muse and photographer, from LONE WOLF MAGAZINE. The photo of Renée, below, is circa 1929-31, which were the years that the two were lovers. I thought it had a similar vibe to the de Glehn portrait I liked.

[image error]Renée Perle, photographed by Jacques-Henri Lartigue

The blog Vintage Everyday says in a post devoted to her, “Born in Romania, Renée Perle, a Romanian-Jewish girl who moved to Paris, is famous as the first muse of the famous French photographer Jacques-Henri Lartigue (1894-1986), who is considered one of the leading photographers of the 20th century.”

The article in Lone Wolf says of Renée, “While Lartigue may have been the era’s finest documentarian, Perle remains its most alluring ambassador. It was her wide-brimmed hats, daringly modern t-shirts, seductive spirit and ease before the camera that inspired the most definitive work of his career. Renée Perle’s images are more powerful and more enduring than Lartigue’s racecars, family portraits or any of his wives. Renée continues to inspire fashion editorials and designer collections, and is widely regarded as a style icon.“

So I sent Alenka a photo of Renée that has a gorgeous, moody, Art-Deco vibe.

About two weeks after I sent all this stuff I got an email from Alenka, with three proposed cover designs. She had really done her homework, because she offered up three very different concepts. There was a lot to work with. One of her concepts used a vintage photo closeup of a young girl’s face from the 1920s. I liked the idea, and told her I’d like to try something similar with the image of Renée. Here’s the tricky bit. Photos we see on book covers are usually used by license. Many come from services like Getty Images or archives, like Conde Nast, and some come from the archives of individual photographers. For instance, the archive of the great portrait photographer of the British Royal family, Cecil Beaton, is controlled by Sotheby’s in London. I had researched Lartigue’s archive and found the foundation in France that holds the copyrights to his work. Also, there are different forms of licensing usage, and I was quoted a price for the use of the photo in only one country. I learned from my designer, however, that the publisher needed to secure the world rights to the image.

I forwarded the contact information for the Lartigue Foundation, but weeks passed and we heard nothing, and so could not move forward with the use of the image. Alenka and I both searched for something else, but since I’m obsessive I wouldn’t let it go. I sent messages to the Foundation through email, the website, their Facebook Page, their Instagram page. I was a pest. Of course, we were on a deadline and the holidays were happening and BTW, I was about to leave on a cruise for three weeks. So, a few days ago, from my hotel in Argentina, I called the Foundation and BOOM! everything fell into place. Alenka put together a fabulous design and just yesterday I had word that it was approved and I am now able to share it with you.

[image error]

Thanks for reading. I hope you’ll sign up for my newsletter (which I have yet to send), and follow along as I move toward August 18, and my publication date.

The Waiting Game Part V: WORKING TITLE

 

In which Liza grapples with choosing a title.

Click on bold text for links.

[image error]Doh.

I had to think for a while to come up with a title for this blog post, which is about…choosing titles. For a while I’ve wanted to change the title of my forthcoming historical novel (my publisher agreed) and for the past several months I’ve been trying to come up with a new one. So before I get started, let me go ahead and (ta-da!) announce the new title:

[image error]TA-DA! Image from needpix.com

ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS

The source comes from several references in the story to Emily Post’s premier guide to manners: Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics and at Home, which was published in 1922. My main character would have owned a copy.

The book will be published in hardcover, ebook, and audiobook on August 18, 2020, by Blackstone Publishing. The pub date happens to be my mother’s birthday! Most auspicious, I think. I wish she could have been here to see this happening.

I’m grateful for the input of the FABULOUS team at Blackstone, as well as to my WONDERFUL agent, Mark Gottlieb of Trident Media Group and to the editor Blackstone paired me with, the upbeat and sharp-eyed Jennifer Pooley. Also, to my daughter Annabel who said that a different possible title sounded like Sabrina the Teenaged Witch. So, no to that one ( and no, I won’t say what it was).

I liked my first title, but it proved, alas, to be problematic. It was a British idiom I first read in Nancy Mitford’s fabulous 1945 novel, The Pursuit of Love. As proclaimed by her character Uncle Matthew Radlett, “the thin end of the wedge” denotes a seemingly insignificant event or action certain to lead to catastrophe and ruin. So, being that the phrase was British and somewhat antiquated, most Americans had never heard it. So it had to be explained, which involved describing not only the meaning of the idiom but also the source. This became tedious. People’s eyes glazed over before I even got to start describing my plot.

gif from u/LessingDoris0 on Reddit

Not ideal.

[image error]Meme from Bitmoji

Then, adding on to that, there was an ongoing issue of the title being repeated with the wrong wording. The title was THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE. People kept saying “The Thin EDGE of the Wedge.” I got tired of correcting, then going on to explain the meaning, source, etc. as eyes glazed over. Plus, a good friend flat-out told me it was a terrible title (thanks Ann). So there was that…

Anyway, I read a lot of blog posts and essays on what makes a good title. There are a bunch of theories on this. I made a list of some of my favorite titles and tried (in vain) to dissect what made them successful. Here are some of my personal faves:

Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe

[image error]First edition, 1929

Where Angels Fear to Tread by E.M. Forster

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

 

[image error]Flaming Youth, 1923

Flaming Youth by Samuel Hopkins Adams

This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald

A Passage to India by E.M. Forster

Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen

Rules of Civility, by Amor Towles

 

And, from Goodreads, here is a partial Listopia of the best novel titles (not sure how they decided on these):

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy  by Douglas Adams

Something Wicked This Way Comes  by Ray Bradbury

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies  by Seth Grahame-Smith

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time  by Mark Haddon

To Kill a Mockingbird (To Kill a Mockingbird  by Harper Lee

The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse by Robert Rankin

The Unbearable Lightness of Being  by Milan Kundera

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt

Here’s what I found in my research:

I decided that I liked vaguely antiquated words- homeward, beloved, gentleman, tread, foresee, seldom, misfortunes, contrary, troubled, glorious, wicked, farewell.

Most great titles contain an evocative or provocative adjective or noun- Crawdads, Mockingbird, Poisonwood, Ironweed, Southernmost, Flaming, Paradise, Blood, Secret, Apocalypse, Curious, Unbearable.

Since my book is written in third person, I decided that there should be no first-person phrasing.

Then I decided that I’d like to avoid some recently-popular trends. I read somewhere, maybe in LitHub Daily, that titles and covers nowadays are being designed so that they can be easily read from a thumbnail photo on one’s phone. I also hope that my cover does not feature an illustration of a woman’s back with her head partially cut off. This is another popular trend, because, supposedly, it allows the reader to envision the protagonist without subjective visual cues. I have no problem with visual cues.

I heard Silas House speak at the Savannah Book Festival in February about his most fabulous recent novel, SOUTHERNMOST. He is incredibly charming. I loved this book, and I loved hearing Silas speak about it. I also love the title. I think it’s perfect for that novel. But Silas told a story, that he had originally titled the book LITTLE FIRES, and he loved that title. He thought it was perfect. Everybody liked it. And then along came Celeste Ng, with LITTLE FIRES EVERYWHERE, and Silas was trumped. It happens. So every time I’ve come up with a good possibility the first thing I do is check Amazon to see if it’s already claimed.

[image error]See! That’s Silas House behind me! I fangirled, but did not get to actually meet him.

My search continued. I looked at quotations, bible verses and song lyrics, hoping for that aha! revelation. I decided I could probably make good money developing titles for bodice-rippers. But my novel is not that. After months of making long lists of words on scraps of paper and in four different notebooks, I ended up with three possibilities that I thought were strong. I sent the list to my agent for his opinion, and as always, he was very helpful. I sent the list to my editor and she suggested I keep trying.

Then, just a few days ago, for input, I sent the list to Blackstone’s marketing and publicity team and my agent. Yesterday we had a “launch call”, which is an introductory phone conference between the author, agent, publicity, marketing, and publication folks to talk about all of those subjects.

[image error]Gorgeous title

A title means so much. Those words are the very first offered to the reader and along with the cover, a title is what makes a potential reader pick up a book in the store or click on the image. I usually choose books by their covers first, then titles. For instance, Amor Towles’s A GENTLEMAN IN MOSCOW (left) has a fabulous black and white photo cover. Sucked me right in, and combined with a killer title, I knew I wanted to read that book. It did not disappoint (though, to be honest, I liked his first novel, RULES OF CIVILITY, better).

So, I looked at all of the variables.

ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS

(Yes, I’m putting it right there in your face, again). The title has the ring of two of my faves, Water for Elephants and Rules of Civility. I could not be more thrilled.

I fear that I’m ending my post without adequately answering my own question: What makes a title great? If I figure it out, maybe I’ll write a book about it titled, Titles for Dummies, or similar. Here’s what I do know: good tiles are evocative and intriguing. Many of them challenge us to puzzle out their meaning—what the hell is a clockwork orange? What was the curious incident/ the something wicked? What are the perks? Those phrases would entice me to pick up the book and have a closer look, and maybe read the cover copy. And I always look at the author photo. Don’t even get me started on that process. Maybe I’ll do a post on author photos, and call it…?

[image error]Author photo, Paris, October 2019 by Brett Walsh.

Thanks for reading, as always. Please follow along on my journey toward publication and maybe check out my Instagram page @lizanashtaylor. Please leave a comment if you like. I’d love to hear from you.

The Waiting Game, Part IV: Pinch me.

[image error]1943 photo.

On Facebook, I see a lot of people feeling “blessed,” This, I have noticed, often precedes a humble-brag about their gifted children or new vacation house, so I use the word with some reservation. But I am feeling that word these days.

On Wednesday, I send off revisions for ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS to my editor. I have, for the first time, included the dedication (top secret), author’s note, and acknowledgements. Today, I sent off a check to pay for the rights to use the lyrics of an Irving Berlin song I feature in my pages ($100, for those who wonder). I sent a list of possible new titles to my agent and a writer friend whose own books have great titles (thanks, Sue William Silverman). Now this, one might argue, is the normal progression of things. These extra bits get added, pre-publication, duh. Here’s the thing, though. All of a sudden, my story is a real manuscript. Now, I’ll wait to hear the next round of suggested pre-publication edits. More on that in my next post. For now, I need to get back to reading every-damned-word-aloud to myself. It’s amazing how many awkward phrasings and overused words can be caught this way. Twelve chapters down, 35 to go.

[image error]Michael Crawford in the New Yorker. Used with permission.

So, backing up a bit to August 21, here is the start of this post, with recent events in my journey:

Soooo. Last week I received my publishing contract. This is a huge milestone and it marks the progress of my first novel being introduced to the world in August 2020. I am feeling really grateful. It was funny though, because receiving final version of the contract was oddly anticlimactic. It came in DocuSign format, meaning I virtually signed it with a robo-script of my signature and then clicked on a rectangle and it disappeared into the ether. I actually had to ask my agent if I had done it properly. And that was that. I had a half-glass of flat Prosecco that was in the fridge and took the obligatory selfie, only I was holding my laptop instead of a paper contract. My family has been hearing about all this for so long that I didn’t even make an announcement or anything. I sort of mentioned it as an aside.

[image error]Me n’ my contract.

Also, last week my dear friend Colleen Baz was visiting. She’s a very talented photographer and has worked professionally with CrossFit and doing portraits. She also has done work with terminally ill kids and most recently with Colorado teens in search of adoptive families. Here is an article about what she’s doing. I told her I had to have a new headshot done, b/c, you know, my hair is no. longer. brown. She took some snaps in about a half-hour. It was so nice and I wasn’t all that self-conscious.

[image error]

I got back home three days ago and immediately went into a frenzy of cleaning and weeding and yard work. I realized today that this is nesting, as I did right before I had my daughter. I mean, it is a rare thing for me to get on my knees and clean the dog door. I’m getting ready to receive my editor’s first round of comments on my manuscript. Then I’ll have about a month to do revisions before sending it back for round two. I suppose I’ve been getting things ready to hunker down and work. I bought a few weeks worth of groceries, made all absolutely necessary appointments, returned calls and emails, took the ancient bulldog to the vet and committed to giving her twice-weekly anti-fungal baths at home (don’t ask), and generally made it possible to not leave the house for the next four weeks.

[image error]Painting by George Crisp [Public domain] from Wikimedia



[image error]Blossom Taylor

Anyway. I did some major revisions on this manuscript before I found that the best way, for me, to make big changes is total immersion. Now, since I wrote this book, which I began in 2015, I have gone through an MFA program and one agent and found another and written a second novel and started a third. So, when I re-read this manuscript last week I had not had my eyeballs on it in its entirety for an entire year. It was almost like reading someone else’s work.

JUMP ahead two weeks to August 29. I’ve been virtually introduced to my editor and received her first round of suggested edits. It is a vital part of the writing/publishing process to go through revisions and edits. First, writers do their own honing and paring and re-working. Then there might be workshop, advisor, or writing group comments. Then, if a piece is selected for publication, there are editor’s comments. Writers need to be open to feedback and be able to filter out what they believe will make their work better. Only the writer knows the essence of the work. But I tell you what, reading pages of constructive criticism is hard. My first, instinctive reaction is always defensiveness. Someone thinks my baby has big ears? But the way to process this, for me, is to sleep on it. Give it time to marinate. My immediate defensive reactions are always emotional, I feel hurt and my impostor syndrome kicks in. In a day or so, that will fade, and I’m better able to absorb the feedback as what it is—valuable, objective criticism.

The Nantucket Book Festival and the Historical Novel Society Conference, 2019

[image error]From the Nantucket Book Festival Website

June has been a busy month. I attended the 8th Annual Nantucket Book Festival, which was terrific. There were many authors I really admire, especially Susan Orlean (THE LIBRARY BOOK), Esi Edugyan (WASHINGTON BLACK), and Madeline Miller (CIRCE).

Some authors were approachable and delighted to be fangirled. Some were less so. Here are some of the highlights:

[image error]Esi Edugyan (Washington Black) , Moi, and Beowulf Sheehan (AUTHOR)



Fangirl don’t care.

WASHINGTON BLACK was named One of the TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR by the New York Times Book Review
AND One of the Best Books of the Year
The Boston Globe ● The Washington Post ● Time ● Entertainment Weekly ● San Francisco Chronicle ● Financial Times ● Minneapolis Star Tribune ● NPR ● The Economist ● Bustle ● The Dallas Morning News ● Slate ● Kirkus Reviews. Ms. Edugyan was delightful. I loved hearing her speak about her book. Unfortunately, as sometimes happens, an audience member asks a question at the end that was a total plot spoiler. Actually, that happened twice, and Esi was very gracious.

[image error]I love Mr. Sheehan’s photo of Donna Tartt.

AUTHOR, by Beowulf Sheehan. Mr. Sheehan was self-effacing, gracious, and fascinating. “Perhaps the foremost literary portrait photographer working today, Sheehan is known for the beauty, nuance, and insight of his haunting compositions. His first book presents two hundred of his finest portraits of prominent writers, playwrights, historians, journalists, and poets such as Roxane Gay, Patti Smith, Masha Gessen, Karl Ove Knausgaard, and J.K. Rowling. These rich black-and-white images were taken in a variety of settings—the photographer’s studio, the subject’s home, concert halls, public spaces—and all bring out new facets of writers we’ve grown to know and love through their words. Sheehan introduces the volume with an essay recalling some of his most memorable moments with the amazing people he’s photographed.” Blurb from Politics & Prose Bookstore.

[image error]The harbor view from the Dreamland Theatre terrace, site of the Friday evening cocktail reception. Photo from the Dreamland Theater .

Madeline Miller, speaking about her amazing novel, CIRCE, which Ann Patchett very accurately describes as: “An epic spanning thousands of years that’s also a keep-you-up-all-night page turner.” – 

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Tim Ehrenberg, who writes the NEED TO READ column in Nantucket Magazine wrote a great preview of the Festival books. His interview with Rebecca Makkai, about her new book, THE GREAT BELIEVERS, was a real highlight for me. He says about the book:
“I’m a great believer in the power of fiction to tell the truth. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.” Rebecca Makkai’s novel left me stunned by its ability to tell the truth about a time so rarely spoken, written or read about. As a gay man in 2019, I have lived a much different life than the gay characters in 1980s Chicago, but this book resonated with me in a personal way. The Great Believers is a dazzling story of friendship and redemption in the face of the AIDS tragedy and this extreme loss set in 1980s Chicago and contemporary Paris. “

So, then I went home for two days before the start of the 2019 Historical Novel Society Conference.



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THE HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY is made up of authors and readers worldwide and has chapters in the UK , Australia, and US. The annual conference is held alternately in the UK and US. This year, it was in Oxon Hill, Maryland, just across the river from Washington, DC. The society is run by volunteers, as is most of the conference.

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Members receive the quarterly Society magazine and may be listed in the Society directory, which allows visitors to view members’ profiles, their latest website/blog posts, and links to their Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads accounts. Writers can join critique groups and both readers and writers can contribute reviews to the magazine. The society also runs international novel and short story competitions. Meetings with agents and editors are available at the conference, as well as page critiques.

This was my first time at the conference. The theme was “Revolution”. When the call for proposals for presentations came out, I wanted to apply. I bandied some ideas about, and settled on “revolution in fashion” but my hubby thought that was too restrictive, so I changed it to “Evolution and Revolution in Women’s Fashion: 1850-1970”. I chose those years so I could begin with Bloomers and end with the mini-skirt. I was delighted to hear that they were interested in featuring my topic.

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I’m not a fashion historian by trade, I’m a novelist. I did, however, attend a graduate program at The Fashion Institute of Technology, after college. Before the year-long program finished, though, I was hired to work for Ralph Lauren, where I was on the design staff. It was my absolute dream job, and during those three years I learned a lot about style and fashion and even more about life. My anxiety dreams are still about being called into a design meeting I had forgotten about and facing Ralph and Tasha unprepared. We all have a version of this, right? Only instead of not having any clothes on, I would have on the WRONG clothes—like Donna Karan or Calvin Klein instead of full Ralph regalia or something vintage and original, and inspiring.

I’ve always been fascinated with fashion history, and for my novels I put together an inspiration board of photos, maps, and sketches. I found more eye candy than I could use and had to pare down my 200 slides for my PowerPoint presentation for my lecture. Then, I practiced.

A lot.

For two weeks before the conference I read my talk aloud to my dogs once a day. Driving in the car I timed myself reciting from memory, and quizzed myself on dates. They couldn’t possibly expect me to know how to hook up my laptop to the projector.

But maybe they would. Better check on that. It was fine, though.

From all of the hundreds of fashion designers I could think of, I narrowed my talk down by time (1850-1970). Then I added some innovations: the zipper, pantyhose, aniline dyes.

[image error]The screen outside my lecture room. SQUEE!

There was a costume contest, where attendees knocked themselves out with historically accurate outfits. Marie Antoinette got my vote. There were workshops on swordplay and historical dancing. My fave (duh) was called “Hooch Through History,” which was an entertaining hopscotch through six historical revolutions, and really just an excuse to drink six cocktails. Lots of fun. It was also great to sit down with four fellow historical fiction authors who share the same agent. (photo above).

Now it’s July, and I’m home with the dogs and hubby until later in the month. Whew.

Here’s a link to another writer’s blog post about the HNSC by Sarah Johnson.

The Waiting Game, PART III : Asleep on a Train

[image error]Asleep on a Train by Roy Frederick Spreter Photo from Askart.com

UPDATE, August 12, 2019. *SQUEE!* I just signed my contract.

Last week I got sidetracked in my enthusiasm for Delia Owens and her novel, WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING. Delia is my hero, publishing her first novel at sixty-eight. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been writing about my path to publishing my debut novel, ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS, and the waiting and anxiety that are involved. So I’ll pick up where I stopped, with my first manuscript going out on submission to publishers. This was in March of 2018.

I felt lucky, in a way, that my breakup with my first agent happened before any publishing editors saw my manuscript. As I understand it, it is a no-no to send the same manuscript out twice, unless it has been significantly re-worked and maybe has a new title.

My new agent made no editorial changes. We discussed where he might send it and he patiently listened to my requests. I asked that he not submit to digital-only publishers. It was important to me that my book come out in a hard-cover version. Call me old-school, but there is nothing like a hardcover. I wanted to be able to walk into bookstores and hold my baby in my hands. He asked me to give him a list of current (published within the past five years) comp titles and I gave him a list of editors of books I felt were similar to mine.

[image error]Hawthornden Castle, Lasswade, Scotland

Weeks passed. Over in Scotland, with very little internet connectivity, I was a wreck. I think that modern technology has conditioned us to experience adrenaline surges in response to the stimulus of an email notification. Ding! Your story is shortlisted for a contest! Ding! You’re waitlisted for a prestigious writer’s conference! Ding! Your proposal for a presentation has been accepted! And these are only positive examples. So, secluded in the Castle, I was jonesing for news. For DINGS.

[image error]King Stephen, 1597-1618. Unknown artist.
Photo from National Portrait Gallery, London Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

My research told me that four months was the usual window for a manuscript to elicit interest. I sought commiseration from my fellow writers in the castle and did my best to immerse myself in revising my second novel, IN ALL GOOD FAITH. On those cold Scottish spring evenings the five fellows read each other’s work or our own work, or read the playwright’s scenes in parts. In out sequestered days, minus the constant distraction of internet and household duties, I managed to make some real progress on GOOD FAITH. I think, in retrospect, that I was trying to attach myself more deeply to the second story, because I might have to face the prospect of the first one not selling. I began to feel distance–physically and emotionally–from that first manuscript.

We can come up with many defenses when we anticipate rejection. Be it personal or professional, rejection hurts. I was usually the type to break up first in dating, because if one does, one controls the outcome to some degree.

[image error]Spongebob Squarepants

Professionally, thought, we have to wait. We have to allow our work to be critiqued and edited by others and, if it is accepted, allow a price to be negotiated for our babies. There are a lot of variables and many things can go wrong, or go sideways. While we wait, we must battle insecurity and, in my case, obsessive tendencies. I speak only for myself here, from my own experience, so take this all with a grain of salt. Although this all sounds dire and it wasn’t always a smooth ride, make no mistake about it: this was something I wanted as much as I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

[image error]I WANT IT NOW! A grain of Veruca Salt, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl

I felt SO grateful to have found an agent to represent my work, and to have my manuscript under consideration. I felt grateful that I had another novel in process, that I was inspired to write, and that I had the time and freedom to do so.

When, in late March, I asked my agent what he had heard from submissions, he began to forward responses. While on a walk in the woods on castle grounds, five forwards came in in rapid succession. Ding! No, because they had something similar in the works; Ding! No, because they weren’t looking for Historical Fiction at that time; Ding! No, because the editor just didn’t connect with my characters. I stopped reading then asked my agent to stop sending them. I realized that I could easily fall into an unhealthy spiraling obsession, waiting for each response and attempting to decipher if there were some hidden message, or something being withheld. I realized that I was taking these rejections to heart to an unhealthy degree.

At this point I had something of a self-reckoning. I had to wrestle with the fact that my book might not sell. I had to admit to myself that I had, over time, allowed this whole process to take over my life. First, I had wanted to learn to write, then to finish a novel, then to make it as good a book as I was capable of, then to find an agent, and then to see it published. All through the process I sought validation. I still do. I realized that my thinking was that if this book did not sell I was invalidated. A fraud. An impostor. (see previous post).

I decided I only wanted to hear good news.

So, for the rest of my time in Scotland, I revised my second manuscript, telling myself that if the first one was declared dead, I would be able to offer up my second born so that my agent wouldn’t lose interest in me. This was, in part, a defense mechanism. I also came up, finally, with the ending of the story.

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As with my first novel, the ending of this novel did not reveal itself to me until I was well into the story. In both cases, I have written along knowing where the plot is leading, but not what the destination would be. That, it seems for me, is a leap of faith, believing that all will be revealed in time. Sometimes our characters surprise us.

More months passed in waiting, and by July I felt like my second novel manuscript was complete. I sent it to my agent but he told me he didn’t want to send it out while my first novel was still in play. He comforted me, saying that first novels often take a bit longer to sell.

On a trip to see my daughter in New York in mid-August, I arranged to meet my agent, Mark, in person at his office. Although it was beastly hot I was determined to look professional and, hopefully, stylish. I wore a pair of kitten-heeled mules that look fabulous but are extremely hard to walk in.

[image error]The cruel shoes.

[image error]Proenza Schouler spring 2007 runway show . (AP Photo/Paul Hawthorne)

I teetered around behind Mark on the office tour, hoping I wouldn’t wipe out. In his office I admired the view and the books he’d represented. We discussed both of my novels and I had a chance to tell him about my research for the second and the historical events that figure into the plot. When I have a willing listener I tend to start gesticulating and bouncing in my seat with enthusiasm. He seemed intrigued, but said he did not want to send it out yet. He believed that something good would happen with the first novel. I left the meeting feeling buoyed somewhat about my prospects, and I careened back through reception and onto the elevator and outside onto Madison Avenue, where I leaned against the building and exhaled before changing into the flip-flops I had stuffed in my purse. I felt exhausted, but also exhilarated.

The next day, I boarded the train for the seven-hour trip home to Virginia. Around Philadelphia, I had a glass of wine (okay, two) since it was cocktail time. Then I fell asleep. I woke to the ringing of my phone.

[image error]Jeff Bridges, The Big Lebowski

Disoriented and fuzzy-headed, I noticed it was a New York number. It was Mark. He said he had an offer on my book.

I sat up, trying to clear my head.

This seemed so sudden. I had just met with with him the previous day. As the news began to sink in he told me he would negotiate terms and get back to me. I thanked him and we hung up. I looked around the train car, smiling broadly, but everyone seemed to carry on as before.

[image error]Funny Girl, Funny Lady, Yentl and Hello Dolly (above) she sings aboard a train, a plane, a taxi a tugboat, and an ocean line","created_timestamp":"0","copyright":"","focal_length":"0","iso":"0","shutter_speed":"0","title":"hel023cw","orientation":"0"}" data-image-title="hel023cw" data-image-description="" data-medium-file="https://lizanashtaylor.files.wordpres..." data-large-file="https://lizanashtaylor.files.wordpres..." class="wp-image-1689" src="https://lizanashtaylor.files.wordpres..." alt="" />Barbra Streisand, Hello Dolly.

I wanted to stand up and shout, or burst into song—like they do in musicals—high kicking my way down the aisle as my fellow passengers performed choreographed moves with briefcases and laptops and boater hats, rising to harmonize on the chorus: “JUST LOOK AT HER! SHE HAS AN OFFER! AN OFFER ON HER MAN-U-SCRIPT!”

I wanted to shout, but I just kept it to myself, jiggling my crossed leg and staring out the window and smiling and smiling. It felt good.

[image error]The Music Man

A couple of days later, if memory serves me, Mark called to tell me that he had told the prospective publisher that I had a second finished manuscript that was a stand-alone sequel to ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS. The publisher asked to see it.

Three days passed. Or maybe five. I heard from Mark that the publisher wanted to buy both of my manuscripts. Negotiations began. My agent did a great job for me. I got everything I asked for and a “very nice deal”. I’ve exchanged emails with the acquisitions editor at the publishing house and met the head of publishing. I’ve been given a pub date of August 2020.

So, back to my theme of waiting. I agreed to a book deal on September 4, 2018. Eight months have passed and I’m hoping to see my contract soon. More, next time, about the process. As always, thanks for reading.

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The Waiting Game, PART II: Labor Pains

[image error]Mia Farrow, Rosemary’s Baby, 1968. Photo from imdb.com

Remember, if you will, that my original premise in this (now lengthy) blog post was that writing and publishing is a waiting game, akin to a pregnancy? Well I’m finally circling back to that. So almost a year and a half had passed since I sent out my first query and started this ball rolling. I was 56 years old and not getting any younger. I started my low-residency MFA at Vermont College of Fine Arts in January, 2016. I was one of two members of my cohort who had an agent. I tempered the urge to drop the phrase “my agent” into every conversation.

[image error]Image from Wikimedia Commons from Hatch & Co. 218 Broadway, Herald Building, N.Y. [Public domain]

My head swelled a bit, until I was brought to my knees by the stellar quality of some of the work of my fellow writers, by their workshop comments on my work, and by the readings of faculty and visiting authors. I was a peon again, humbled by how much I did not know. And this is exactly how it should be. An inflated ego is not the friend of a writer. Enough said about that.

Where was I? Oh yes. The Agent Contract. I believed that it
was ALL going to happen, and quickly.

NEWS FLASH: An agent contract is just five pieces of paper, really. Yes, it’s important and you should read it very carefully and have a lawyer review it. Of course I signed it, thinking that NOW things would really start to happen.

Not so fast, missie.

More revisions, work on my MFA, longer waits to hear back from my agent, and I began to think some other author had caught her eye. In January, I was going to New York for fun and arranged a meeting, which did not take place at the Agency office. We met in a coffeeshop and she bought me a cup of tea. She was cool. I was nervous. We passed pleasantries and talked about the upcoming Women’s March in Washington. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she asked me why I had made the changes I made in the last revisions. Some of them were off-script.

She did not look happy.

I was flummoxed. Each time she had given me her revisions I had done my best to take her ideas and run with them, with the intention of exceeding her expectations. Apparently, I had overstepped. I left that meeting confused and feeling insecure. Over the next six weeks, as I waited through the (longest yet) interval of her review I figured something out. By now, I had been through the first year of my two-year MFA program. My writing was—I thought—evolving in ways I was happy about. It was different now than it had been a year before. But that meant that I was not the same writer that this agent had found and signed. Over time, I realized that we had grown apart, creatively. It was no one’s fault. We both came to see that we just could not move forward together. I was devastated, and I believe that she was sad about breaking up. I have tremendous respect for her and I’m grateful for the time and effort she put into making my novel better. So in March of 2017, I found myself back at square one. Albeit with a better (I hoped) manuscript.

Did I mention yet that being a writer requires fortitude? That’s one of the main points I mean to get across here, so let me drive that home:
WRITING TAKES FORTITUDE.

Okay. So if you recall, I am a year-and-a-half in. I’ve been
agented, I’d suffered a creative breakup, I’d started a second novel. And let
me tell you, the self-doubt is real. I’ve heard it described as impostor syndrome.

[image error]Image from allyogapositions.com



Impostor syndrome (also known as impostorphenomenon, impostorism, fraud syndrome or theimpostor experience) is a psychological pattern in which an individual doubts his or her accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a “fraud”. (Wikipedia).



[image error]Milli Vanilli.
Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/

At this point you will tell yourself some version of: WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? Why are you spending all this money on MFA tuition? Why the HELL are you starting a second book when the first one hasn’t gone anywhere?

Despite the self-doubt, I kept going, working on my second novel. At this point, I was fully invested in my MFA program. I loved it. I grew excited about my second manuscript. For several months I licked my wounded ego and let the dust settle, concentrating on the new work and getting short stories published and entering contests.

It’s an interesting phenomenon, or maybe it’s just me, but I found that once I was really entrenched in writing my second book (a stand-alone sequel), I was able to distance myself from the first. It’s sort of like having a second child.

[image error]Camp Ilahee, 1930s Photo from campilahee.com

I plodded on, buoyed by the support of my MFA cohort and advisors. I refined my query letter but did not send more out. I had some stories published, won a fiction contest, then a fellowship. I let my novel manuscript sit “in a drawer” (as writers describe it), while I worked on my second novel. After about six months, I began to go back over my first manuscript, changing some things I thought I had put in only because my first agent had wanted them. That, frankly, was tough. Because it is easy to brainwash yourself into believing that you agree with everything your agent suggests. It is easy to make nice and be a good camper. I realized that I had, on some elemental level, lost touch with my own work. That in some places, I didn’t recognize my words. And that, my friends, was scary. Because, as I said before, my style was evolving. In moments of doubt I thought that maybe, just maybe, the first success had been a fluke.

Now I must interject something important. Along with the patience and fortitude, submitting writers—I’ve learned—need to be realistic. This does not mean pessimistic, though. When I say realistic I mean that if ten prospective agents tell you that they felt like they “couldn’t connect” with your main character, then this is a problem you ought to address. Telling yourself, well, they just don’t get me, should only work about—say—five times. Then it’s time to smell the f**ing coffee.

After a few rejections to my second-round queries I began to think, well, you know, Liza, a lot of first books aren’t published, right? I mean, we’ve all read those interviews where a now-famous-and-successful author laughs, confessing that their first book was truly terrible. Well, hell. They can laugh now, now that they’ve got a mini-series coming out and an endorsement from Reese or Oprah. Har, har, har. After several requests for fulls and some kind rejections, I had an email. A young agent from a top agency. A man. I had mainly queried women, thinking my work would resonate more with them. He requested the full. I sent it, feeling cautiously optimistic. By now I had learned to corral my excitement to protect myself from disappointment when the news was not encouraging. Five days passed. He emailed, requesting a call.

As before, I dressed professionally for the call. We talked. I was impressed. He liked my work. He was soft-spoken and persuasive, without being pushy. A few days later I accepted his offer of representation. Then, almost exactly a year after my first agent breakup, things started to happen.

It was early March of 2018 when I began working with my new agent. I sent him a list of recent comparable titles to mine and ten days later I left for a month-long fellowship in Scotland, in a castle where no speaking was allowed between 9:30am and 6:30pm and cell service and internet were spotty at best, with reliable reception a 45-minute walk away. My novel went out on submission to publishers and I was a wreck, waiting to hear.

But again, guess what? Waiting is involved here. Just as agents ask for submissions and can be inundated with queries, editors must also wade through manuscripts, looking for fresh new authors who have great style, or a marketable story, or just some magically charismatic way with words, or maybe all of the above and more. And here, I’m going to wander off again a little bit. Bear with me. Take for instance the meteoric rise of Delia Owens’ WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING. Delia had previously published a couple of non-fiction books that had done well. At the age of 68 (GO DELIA! GO DELIA! GO DELIA!) her first novel came out. Reese Witherspoon, who’s an actress but also the face of the wildly popular Reese’s Book Club which boasts ONE MILLION followers on Instagram, chose it as her featured book of the month.

[image error]Mike Myers as Dr. Evil from Austin Powers

The rest is, truly, publishing history. The book has been sitting pretty at the very tippy-top of the NYT bestseller list for over five months and Reese has her hand in the development of the movie.

[image error]Me n’ Delia



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See, good things come to those who wait. Just ask Delia. I had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Owens at the Savannah Book Festival in February. We had a nice conversation, where Delia was very cordial and self-effacing and I was all fangirl squealy-gushy. When I left for a moment to refill Delia’s publicist’s wine, a man stopped me and started chatting me up, asking me about my book. I was thrilled and flattered, until I realized that he thought he was speaking to Delia Owens, and our convo went straight downhill from there.

TO BE CONTINUED. I promise to get back on point in Part III.