Liza Nash Taylor's Blog, page 2

The Waiting Game: PART I

[image error]Attributed to Marcus Gheereart the Younger , Portrait of a Lady in late 16th century Elizabethan England. (Roughly 1550 to 1600) from Tate.org.uk. [Public domain]

If the wait from book deal to physical publishing contract were a pregnancy, I’d have my suitcase packed and waiting at the door by now. My last blog post was over seven months ago. Since then, I’ve been given a pub date of August 2020 for my first historical novel, ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS, and I’m told I’ll be assigned an editor this summer. While I’m excited and grateful to have a deal in the works, I had no idea that this would be such a long process. For the past seven-and-a-half months I’ve been on something of a writing hiatus, which feels weird because for most of the past five years I’ve written every day. While I’ve been waiting I’ve taught a couple of seminars and I’m working on a lecture I’ll give in June.
Getting published is a waiting game, as anyone who’s been through it knows.

[image error]Photo from Wikimedia Commons:

It’s also like a carnival ride, in that at all points along the way you never know when your heart will lurch with the unexpected—that glowing skeleton drops in front of you, or you feel like you’re flying, or you know you’re going to be sick. That email announcement goes ding! And then BOOM, there it is: a request for more pages, or a request from an agent for a phone call to talk about our work, or even an offer of representation. Further down the road that BOOM is a publishing offer.
Heady stuff, for sure.
But between these moments, there is an awful lot of waiting. And anxiety. But I get ahead of myself. There’s a lot that goes on before this point, believe me. Publication is not for the faint of heart. And of course, any writer reading this is probably thinking, at this moment, ‘yadda, yadda, yadda, I’ve heard this before.’ Right? Maybe. Let me tell you a little story.
After sending rounds of query letters I had four requests for full manuscripts. For those of you who haven’t been through this process this means that I had sent flawless, artfully crafted, intriguing, (yet humbly self-effacing) one-page letters (with sample pages, if requested) to a carefully researched list of agents. I had included recent comparable titles (“comps”), I had a hook and elevator pitch, a brief bio. Now, this is a whole ‘nother blog post, so I won’t go into more detail. But anyway, what happens is that the agent’s assistant (most likely) reads your letter and, if it’s interesting, your sample pages. Then, said assistant passed them on to the agent, who might read them that day (my fastest request for a full was 6 minutes) or might read them in four months. If the agent is interested, the assistant (or maybe the agent) will email, asking for more pages. And here’s where the waiting bit comes in. I had several agents hold onto my manuscripts for up to four months, even though I let them know that fulls were being considered elsewhere. Somewhere between the third and fourth month of waiting it hit me like the clapper of a gong: they don’t need me or my novel. They have stacks of good stuff to choose from.
Yet, while this is true, somehow agents need to find work that they believe in and want to represent.
Okay, I have totally wandered away from my opening premise. (must edit). Yes, right, well. The waiting. You have finished your manuscript! Edited, copyedited, formatted. You have come up with a killer title, and admit it, you have already decided who should star in the blockbuster movie (though you’ll keep that to yourself.) You feel cautiously optimistic as you craft your query letter. You research agents, personalizing each letter and submission. Onward. Get it all right. Send the letters.
Wait.
Send requested fulls. Maybe grow out your hair.

[image error]Baby Fleetwood Taylor, 2015

Maybe raise a puppy.
Wait.
Then, things can speed up. I sent a letter and quickly had a request for 50 more pages. Then, like something in a Dickens novel, I came home from Christmas Eve dinner in 2015 to find an email from an agent, enthusiastically asking for the whole manuscript. A month later, I had an email from her assistant, asking for a phone call “to discuss my work”. In the five days intervening I deconstructed the wording of that request dozens of times: She didn’t say “to discuss representation”. Didn’t say anything about a contract. I wondered, should I request that we meet in person, and I’ll come to New York at any time of the day or night at her convenience? Does that look desperate and pathetic? (Yes, it does.)

[image error]Photo from Omeka at Middlebury

It’s just a phone call. Don’t overthink it. Repeat. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to focus on the potentially overwhelming fact that THIS WAS THE BIGGEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN in my fairly new writing career.
SO, the call happened. I dressed as if I were going into a meeting. Took care with my makeup and hair. And that actually helped. I decided against having that shot of Jack Daniels. I sat in my living room so that my three dogs would not distract me. I had a notepad, a fresh pen. My senses were on high alert, my palms, super clammy. I mean, super clammy.

The phone rang right on time and I answered, affecting a “hello?” meant to sound like I was just pulling wet laundry from the washing machine—like it was a normal day and this was no big deal and I was an old hand at this sort of thing. The assistant was on the line, and she connected the agent. I was pleasantly surprised by how warm they sounded, how solicitous and kind they were, how complimentary. The call lasted forty-five minutes. I hung up with an offer to “revise and resubmit” my novel, according to the agent’s ideas. I agreed readily. I was thrilled to have caught the notice of someone at this agency. And she was so nice! But here was the kicker: I had to agree that I would not send the manuscript out to anyone else as long as I was editing based on this agent’s ideas for my work. That was fair. I agreed.
Fast forward eleven months. I had completed three exclusive revisions. I did not have a contract for representation. As I ticked off each week between waiting to hear about my revisions and hoping for a contract, I learned to be patient. And let me tell you, it is hard. Every time there was a request for a phone call I thought, she probably hates what I did. She’s going to drop me and I wasted 3/6/9 months.

[image error]The Antikamnia Calendar, 1897 Photo from the Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum [Public domain]

I had no idea almost a year would pass. But it did. And after those 11 months, my novel was better. I spent all of my time and energy on making this agent happy with my work. Happy enough to sign me. I pushed myself. I applied to an MFA program.
In November we had another call. As I waited for the days to pass I convinced myself that surely she would not want to continue if my work wasn’t there yet. So, same modus operandi for the previous calls: dress well, paper, pen. Only this time I had a box of Kleenex and I did, in fact, have that shot of bourbon, because I truly anticipated bad news. I re-thought taking a tranquilizer because I figured that if I did I would probably ugly cry on the phone when the bad news was delivered.
But after a few pleasantries, here’s what she said: “We need to talk about further revisions.” My heart rose, since this meant she wasn’t dumping me yet, but it quickly fell as I thought, I gave my all to that last round of revisions. I did almost everything she asked, and it’s still not good enough? I can’t do this. I don’t have what it takes.

And then she said, “…but I believe that your work is strong. We’d like to offer you representation.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

YEAH, BABY!

In which Liza gets a book deal.

[image error]

Click on bold type for links.

[image error]

The deal announcement (title has changed to ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS).

YES! I have a book deal for both of my completed historical novels! YES, they will appear in hardcover, paperback, e-book and as audiobooks! Yes, I am absolutely pants-wettingly beside myself.

[image error]

Honey Boo Boo, photo from Popsugar

Yes, there is validation, and my pants would be on fire if I didn’t admit that. There’s some money, which is also really sweet, but what I’m feeling the most right now is GRATITUDE.

I’ve had fabulous writing teachers, mentors, and MFA advisors. [image error]I had a great cohort (go, Winter, 2018!) in the MFA program at Vermont College of Fine Arts, where I first read my work at Connie May Fowler’s fabulous VCFA Novel Retreat. I had a wonderful writing group at WriterHouse, here in Charlottesville, Virginia. My family is supportive and even though they don’t really understand what being a writer is, they support my ambition and dreams. My agent, Mark Gottlieb of Trident Media Group worked hard to put the deal together and I’m thrilled to be working with the folks at Blackstone Publishing. I’m also grateful for the time I spent at Hawthornden Castle this March and April.

It’s an ongoing journey—okay, sometimes it’s been a slog. Along the way, there have been moments of euphoria and tears of bitter disappointment, chasms of self-doubt, nail-biting anxiety, and many, many hours staring at my laptop screen (or into the refrigerator, when I got stuck). I have to confess that there have, and will be, envy and jealousy of talented (younger, prettier) writers whose gorgeous prose or poetry seems effortless, and friends who already have novels in the world. There’s always someone higher up the ladder, right?

Along the way, I’ve been trying to stay on an even keel.

[image error]

Olena beaded edge shawl pattern in English cashmere yarn from Yarntelier

For me, this requires wine, solitude, wine, long walks, yoga, wine, occasional Ativan, wine, compulsive knitting in ridiculously complex patterns, and often, praying, especially in the dark times, for grace. Because grace, I think, is the most valuable tool available to us humans as we navigate both highs and lows. Grace allows us to accept what feels unfair or unkind. Grace helps us to wait with patience. It asks our higher power of choice not to help us get what we want, but to help us move through the process with self-compassion and acceptance of things that don’t seem to make sense. Sometimes, grace gives us clarity, if not of a specific situation, then of our unique position within that situation. Grace reminds us to pay it forward when we can.

I don’t know what’s ahead in this writing journey. Needless to say, there will probably be more lows and hopefully, more highs. To be sure, there will be a whole lot of shameless self-promotion in my future, and more staring at the laptop screen. I’m just starting a third novel now, set in the early 1950s.

More later, as we lead up to publication! Meanwhile, I hope you’ll check out my new  Facebook page.

I’ve also made an Instagram page dedicated to ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS, which you can follow if you like by clicking HERE.  

And I have a Pinterest page for ETIQUETTE, which you can view HERE.

Thanks for stopping by.

[contact-form]

One Sublime Month

 Let me say one thing. Well, two things, actually. The first is that I never thought I’d be chosen as a Hawthornden Fellow. But I filled out the application in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, no other applicant could make it in a particular month—January, for instance, or someone might break a leg, or whatever, leaving a spot for me. Then I chickened out and told the nice folks who had offered to write recommendations for me ‘thanks, but I don’t qualify.’ Then, I decided I really, really wanted to try for it, so I did.[image error]

The second and far more important thing is this: I am profoundly grateful to the late Mrs. Drue Heinz and her committee, and to Hamish Robinson, the administrator of Hawthornden, for the opportunity to spend a month here. While the initial awe has mellowed over my four weeks here, it will never go away.

For eight months of the year, five or six writers are invited to spend a month at Hawthornden Castle. Novelists, playwrights, screenwriters, poets, etc., from all over the world may apply. The daunting eleven-page application must be requested by mail, from Scotland, and returned, hand-written, to the administrator, also by snail mail.

[image error]Aside from a few housekeeping rules, the main thing is that silence be maintained from 9:30am until 6:30pm, every single day. There is no internet available to Fellows and very spotty cell reception. In short, it is a place to write without distraction, while the lovely staff does one’s laundry, fixes one’s meals, and tidies one’s room. For an entire month. In Scotland. No, I’m not making this up.

The chef, Ruth Shannon, provides wonderful traditional Scottish fare for dinner: Comforting fish pie on snowy nights, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and perfectly roasted potatoes on Sunday. And her puddings! Her almond cake, her berry Charlotte, her trifle, and that chocolate soufflé! Her first cookbook is in print and another is in the works.

The writer’s bedrooms are named: Boswell, Evelyn, Herrick, Bronte, Milosz, Drummond, and I was in Jonson. Upon arrival, I unpacked my family photographs and pictures of my three dogs, my yoga mat, hiking shoes, and the three craft books I brought along: Janet Burroway’s Writing Fiction, A Guide to Narrative Craft, John Gardner’s On Becoming a Novelist, and a small volume called “It was the best of sentences, it was the worst of sentences,” by June Casagrande. The first two I read almost daily, as a religious person might study a devotional. Burroway always delivers when I have a writing problem or question. (I understand that the book is being re-issued soon, minus the anthologized stories she uses as examples.) Casagrande’s book I did not get to. I’m hoping it will help with my comma issues, but that’s another post entirely.

Our days here are for work, beginning after breakfast and broken by lunch and perhaps an afternoon walk. Sometimes I’ve done yoga in my room, trying not to knock over furniture and stifling my groans of pain, so as not to disturb my fellows.

Around 12:15 each day the muffled clang of Thermos against Tupperware heralds the arrival of lunch, and there, as if delivered by fairies, sits a lovely small wicker hamper (originally from Fortnum & Mason, in London) outside my bedroom door. When I unbuckle the leather straps, I find inside a Thermos of hot, homemade vegetable soup and a sandwich, neatly fitted into a container and halved, with carrot sticks and hummus in another little compartment. A cute little Babybel cheese completes this picture. Each day, I imagine I feel the delight of a school child, whose mother has lovingly packed my lunch. (This is projection because growing up, we got lunch money; but still…) [image error]

[image error]         In 1982, Mrs. Heinz refurbished Hawthornden Castle and turned it into an international writer’s retreat. Located about 25 minutes south of Edinburgh, it boasts a 15th-century tower and a commanding view of the River Esk and surrounding woods. The Castle was enlarged and partially re-built by the poet and historian William Drummond, in 1638.

In 1842, Queen Victoria visited one of Drummond’s heirs, and the caves below the Castle were, reportedly, lined with velvet for the occasion. When Charles Dickens dropped in, unannounced, it is said that he was turned away by the housekeeper. His rockstar status had no currency at Hawthornden, apparently.

I won’t delve too deeply into the history of the Castle but suffice it to say that there are the obligatory winding stone staircases and low doorways. It would not surprise me in the least to walk in on the staff of Downton Abbey having elevenses in the Hearth Room. The layout remains a mystery, with no rhyme or reason and a window visible from the outside that does not exist inside. In our third week, Hamish led us on a tour of the caves and dungeon beneath the Castle. Photos below;

I asked if there are ghosts and Hamish said no. But one night, when I was having trouble sleeping, I rolled onto my side and pulled the duvet around my shoulders. Behind me, I felt the distinctive footfall of a cat landing on the bed, behind my back. I gasped, and turned over, alarmed, but there was no cat. And yet, I was sure I had felt those four light paws sink into the coverlet as if it had jumped from the empty bed next to mine. Super creepy, I won’t lie. But it didn’t happen again.[image error]

My Fellows for the month are three novelists (two American, one Scot) and a young American playwright. ** As the weeks pass, I’m increasingly awed by their talent. In the evenings, we sit by the fire in the drawing room, sipping wine or Scotch, and take turns on alternating nights, reading our work aloud or having it read by the others. I’ve never seen a moment of competitiveness (Bananagrams excepted), or envy, among us. We’ve bonded over how to efficiently operate the antique plumbing and where Wi-Fi is to be found. In our fourth week together, we are as adept at the Victorian plumbing as, well, the Victorians.

[image error]

The Victorian taps on the third floor

We’ve shared stories of children, husbands, lovers and parents, success and self-doubt. Some of us received letters and two of us ordered the same beautiful, wine-colored suede boots.[image error]

At the end of our first week, we started playing Bananagrams after dinner. I had never played before, but Sheena insisted this was much more fun than Scrabble, and she was right.

[image error]

The second week, Sheena taught us Dirty-Made-Up-Bananagrams. For example: VIBROID, CHUND, WEANOLE, BUMFO, PENISTATE, NARTY. You get the idea.

Shortly before I left to come here, my first novel, ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS, went out on submission to publishers. For non-writers, this means that my literary agent has sent out my manuscript to potential editors in hopes that one (or more) might love it, fight over it, and want to publish it, offering a multiple book deal with film, audio, and foreign rights.

It’s nerve-wracking, I won’t lie.

So, while here I’ve been finishing the draft of my second novel. As I pack up to leave it stands at 372 pages and 115,000 words. I can’t say how many words I’ve added or cut, but I have done what I hoped to do, which was to connect the narrative pieces I already had and edit the thing. For instance, I spent an entire day doing a word search for ‘was,’ (1289 appearances to>1125) and another morning on ‘had,’ (990>784) with the intention of eliminating the dreaded passive voice.

When I get back there is still work to do. The manuscript needs copyediting, it needs to be read by beta readers, then I need to read it out loud to myself and, finally, send it to my agent. Although my MFA advisors, workshop members, and writing group have read parts of this, no one, except me, has read the entire thing. So, there’s that to be dealt with.

During my stay here, I’ve had to wrestle with the possibility that my first novel won’t sell. Apparently, this is the case for many writers. I have found myself, on several occasions, wallowing in self-doubt, thinking what am I doing, writing a second book if no one wants my first? Am I an idiot to keep at it? I haven’t had an answer to that yet, but I figured that now is really not the time to have an existential writing crisis. [image error]

Today, one of our last, my afternoon walk followed deer trails through the high woods and I crossed a steep waterfall via a fallen log, all the while telling myself that if I fell, no one in the entire world knew where I was and if I screamed it was doubtful that anyone would hear me, except maybe the three horses I passed earlier. But there was no drama, except muddied shoes and some truly ungraceful fence-hopping.

The North Esk runs below the Castle and walking trails wind down to a cottage ruin called “The Maiden Castle,” situated at the spit of land where the river turns back on itself.

[image error]

The Maiden Castle

On my first trail walk, I was nervous and very cautious, afraid of falling in the thick black mud and afraid, also, of getting lost in the woods or tumbling down the steep banks into the frigid North Esk. (How embarrassing would that be—drowning on my first day?) On subsequent walks, I would venture farther afield and fall in the mud once or twice, though not over a cliff. On my rambles, I found shards of blue and white pottery and tumbled glass along the riverbank. In the newly plowed field adjoining the library, pottery shards flash in the furrows. Today, I gathered a pocketful of colored ones. To me, these are treasures I’ll take home, but to the farmer, I suspect they are no better than gravel.

[image error]

Now, as I write this, the rain has begun. We’ve had a snow-globe snowstorm and plenty of rain, and lots of sunshine. When we arrived, the snowdrops were blooming and as I prepare to leave there are seas of daffodils and pink wild cyclamen on the banks. I am snug, in my little room with its Laura Ashley fabrics and ruffled lampshade, pine desk, and fireplace. And I am filled with gratitude—not only for the Fellowship, which is so generous—but also for the friends I’ve made, for the time to do what I love, and for the family I left behind, who allow me the freedom to be here.

While I was in residence, out benefactress died, here. I wrote her a note of thanks after I received my acceptance, but I’ll never have the chance to tell her how much the experience has meant. I leave Hawthornden today, feeling full of gratitude. I hope she might have approved of our word games and laughter and cheers of appreciation for each other’s work.

Rest in Peace, Mrs. Heinz.

*Country Life, May 21, 1987, by Clive Aslet

** Left to right: H.S. Cross, Selina Fillinger, Sheena M.J. Cook, Me, T. Sean Steel

[image error]

[contact-form]