Jennifer Donnelly's Blog, page 14
January 5, 2015
Rogue Wave Launch: You're Invited!
Mermaids, monsters, magic ... and pizza? Yes! We're celebrating the launch of
ROGUE WAVE, the second book in the Waterfire Saga, with a pizza party at 6 p.m. Tuesday evening at New York City's legendary Books Of Wonder bookstore on West 18th St.
I'll be reading from the book (I may enlist a few audience members to help me!), signing, and catching up with readers.
I have been cooped up writing for months -- I have three new books coming out this year! -- and I'm SO looking forward to getting out!
I hope to see you there!!
ROGUE WAVE, the second book in the Waterfire Saga, with a pizza party at 6 p.m. Tuesday evening at New York City's legendary Books Of Wonder bookstore on West 18th St. I'll be reading from the book (I may enlist a few audience members to help me!), signing, and catching up with readers.
I have been cooped up writing for months -- I have three new books coming out this year! -- and I'm SO looking forward to getting out!
I hope to see you there!!
January 1, 2015
No one can ever guarantee you'll get published, but one person can guarantee you won't -- you. Never give up.
Dear Goodreaders:
Happy New Year! In case one of your resolutions this year is to get published, or even to just keep writing, you might enjoy this piece I wrote a few years ago. I'm rooting for you!
***
Just Keep Writing
I waited years for The Call. Ten years, in fact.
Like my first novel, The Tea Rose, the story of how I finally got The Call is a rags-to-riches tale. Got a few minutes? Good. Pull up a chair.
I was in my mid-twenties when I started to write The Tea Rose
. I’d gotten the idea for the book a few years earlier, while I was a student in London. My then-landlord, Clark, took me to the Brick Lane market in Whitechapel. Clark loved antiques. He had a Model A Ford. We drove east from Notting Hill early one Sunday morning. This was the mid-80s and East London was totally off the map. There were no wine bars or posh hotels, then. No multi-million dollar flats or art galleries. There were lots of crumbling houses, though. And dark, cobbled alleys. There were smoky pubs, boarded-up warehouses, and silent, brooding wharves.
I’d read about this area; it was notorious. It was Jack the Ripper’s London. Ben Tillet’s London. The Kray brothers’ London. It was a worker’s London, where dockers, factory hands, builders, seamen, and costers lived. The smallness and plainness of the houses spoke of hard lives and meager resources.
Clark pulled up just before a rusted railway overpass. As he cut the engine, I heard music. When we emerged on the other side of the bridge, I discovered its source. Burly costermongers were singing the praises of their fruits and vegetables. They smiled and winked as they did, their voices rising in competition. Watching them, I felt as if I’d left modern-day London and stumbled into the same city that Johnson, Hogarth and Dickens knew. We bought some clementines and walked on, passing in and out of musty warehouses, stalls, sheds and old stables. Picking up trinkets. Tripping on cobbles. Sampling apple fritters, jellied eels, pickled whelks. I found a rhinestone necklace for a pound. A tweed jacket for two. Clark found a toilet.
I found something else that day, too — inspiration. East London was a shadow city to the western metropolis, a place to soothe a darker heart. It was honest and raw and in its own hard way, breathtakingly lovely. I fell in love with it then and there and knew that I wanted to write about the place and its people.
And so, a few years later, I started. I started the way you just start things when you’re young and optimistic and energetic and a little stupid. I jumped in with both feet.
I loved words. I loved books. I knew I could write. I’d been a reporter, a copywriter. I had a story idea. What else did I need?
A lot, as it turned out. I needed a skin as thick as a rhino’s. The endurance of a mountain climber. Persistance, courage, and faith. (A bottle of Prozac would have helped, too.)
There was so much I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to structure a very long novel. I didn’t know what point of view was, pacing, narrative drive – and a thousand other literary terms. I didn’t know my way around the world of agents and publishers.
All I knew was that I wanted to write. That I needed to write.
So I started writing.
I wrote mornings from 4:30 am until 7:00 am, and then I went to work. I wrote on weekends. Instead of taking vacations. I wrote pages upon pages upon pages. Draft upon draft.
But it didn’t matter. The story didn’t work. It didn’t flow. It bogged down in description. It meandered. So I ripped up what I had and started again. And again. A year passed. Two. Five. Eight. I watched my friends get ahead in their chosen fields while I cobbled together a living from part time jobs, temp jobs, freelance jobs. I watched others get agents, get editors, get contracts, get published.
And I kept writing.
Frustration set in. A sense of futility. Depression. Despair. I took hope, no matter how slim, from wherever I could find it: horoscopes, songs, fortune cookies. I picked up lucky pennies and wished on stars.
And I kept writing.
I knew that nothing and no one could guarantee I’d ever get published, but I myself would guarantee that I didn’t if I stopped.
And then one day, I had it – a finished manuscript. I knew it wasn’t perfect. But some people – my family, my friends – liked it.
It was time to get an agent. Once again, not knowing what I was doing, I got out a big fat guide to literary agencies and sent a letter to every single one that sounded nice. Luckily I got a response from an agent at a very good one – Writers House – inviting me to submit my work. His name was Simon Lipskar. He read my work, told me the good news: “You can write,” then told me the bad news: “You need to do a lot of work on the structure. On plot. On pacing.”
I started again. Rewriting. Reworking. Trimming down a 1,000 page manuscript to a workable size.
I kept writing.
It took me another year to get the manuscript right. Another year of frustration. Of going back and forth with Simon, page by page. Of tears and doubt and worry.
But I kept writing.
And finally, it was done. Again. It was polished and perfect and I thought we’d sell it immediately. I was so wrong.
The manuscript was rejected from every publishing house in New York, and a few outside of it. Simon tried hard to sell it for over a year. And then I got a call. Not The Call, not by a long shot. It was Simon, and he was calling to tell me he’d tried everything and everywhere and he couldn’t sell it. At least, not yet. We had to take a break. Put it on a shelf.
I was so down, I can’t even describe it. Ten years of my life. All that work. All that sacrifice. Such a labor of love. And no one wanted it.
My wonderful husband took me for a weekend away. If he hadn’t, I think I would have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. My mom and dad and sister told me to keep the faith. I thought they were all nuts.
I went back to work. I tried to forget I’d ever written a book. Weeks passed. Then months. It was winter.
I kept writing.
And then one dreary, cold, gray afteroon, as I was sitting at my desk at Saks Fifth Avenue, writing ad copy, the phone rang. It was Simon.
There was excitement in his voice, I could hear it. My heart started thumping. My hands went cold. And sure enough, he said the words I’d been waiting to hear for a decade: “I have an offer for The Tea Rose.” There was an editor a St. Martin’s – a new hire – and she liked it.
It wasn’t riches, not even close. But it didn’t need to be. It was priceless. I said “Yes.” And then I called my huband and my parents, who’d been there for me every step of the way, then I told my copywriting pals, who cheered, and then I went for a walk on Manhattan’s streets – feeling like I finally had a right to walk them, to stand tall upon them.
I bought a bottle of champagne, went home and drank it with my husband, and danced on our dining room table. After ten long years, I’d made it. I was a writer. Soon I’d be an author.
So when it gets hard and cold and lonely, and you think it’s all useless and you’re never going to get anywhere, know that there’s only one thing you should do, only one thing you must do, only one thing you can do: Keep writing.
With best wishes,
Jennifer
Happy New Year! In case one of your resolutions this year is to get published, or even to just keep writing, you might enjoy this piece I wrote a few years ago. I'm rooting for you!
***
Just Keep Writing
I waited years for The Call. Ten years, in fact.
Like my first novel, The Tea Rose, the story of how I finally got The Call is a rags-to-riches tale. Got a few minutes? Good. Pull up a chair.
I was in my mid-twenties when I started to write The Tea Rose
. I’d gotten the idea for the book a few years earlier, while I was a student in London. My then-landlord, Clark, took me to the Brick Lane market in Whitechapel. Clark loved antiques. He had a Model A Ford. We drove east from Notting Hill early one Sunday morning. This was the mid-80s and East London was totally off the map. There were no wine bars or posh hotels, then. No multi-million dollar flats or art galleries. There were lots of crumbling houses, though. And dark, cobbled alleys. There were smoky pubs, boarded-up warehouses, and silent, brooding wharves.I’d read about this area; it was notorious. It was Jack the Ripper’s London. Ben Tillet’s London. The Kray brothers’ London. It was a worker’s London, where dockers, factory hands, builders, seamen, and costers lived. The smallness and plainness of the houses spoke of hard lives and meager resources.
Clark pulled up just before a rusted railway overpass. As he cut the engine, I heard music. When we emerged on the other side of the bridge, I discovered its source. Burly costermongers were singing the praises of their fruits and vegetables. They smiled and winked as they did, their voices rising in competition. Watching them, I felt as if I’d left modern-day London and stumbled into the same city that Johnson, Hogarth and Dickens knew. We bought some clementines and walked on, passing in and out of musty warehouses, stalls, sheds and old stables. Picking up trinkets. Tripping on cobbles. Sampling apple fritters, jellied eels, pickled whelks. I found a rhinestone necklace for a pound. A tweed jacket for two. Clark found a toilet.
I found something else that day, too — inspiration. East London was a shadow city to the western metropolis, a place to soothe a darker heart. It was honest and raw and in its own hard way, breathtakingly lovely. I fell in love with it then and there and knew that I wanted to write about the place and its people.
And so, a few years later, I started. I started the way you just start things when you’re young and optimistic and energetic and a little stupid. I jumped in with both feet.
I loved words. I loved books. I knew I could write. I’d been a reporter, a copywriter. I had a story idea. What else did I need?
A lot, as it turned out. I needed a skin as thick as a rhino’s. The endurance of a mountain climber. Persistance, courage, and faith. (A bottle of Prozac would have helped, too.)
There was so much I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to structure a very long novel. I didn’t know what point of view was, pacing, narrative drive – and a thousand other literary terms. I didn’t know my way around the world of agents and publishers.
All I knew was that I wanted to write. That I needed to write.
So I started writing.
I wrote mornings from 4:30 am until 7:00 am, and then I went to work. I wrote on weekends. Instead of taking vacations. I wrote pages upon pages upon pages. Draft upon draft.
But it didn’t matter. The story didn’t work. It didn’t flow. It bogged down in description. It meandered. So I ripped up what I had and started again. And again. A year passed. Two. Five. Eight. I watched my friends get ahead in their chosen fields while I cobbled together a living from part time jobs, temp jobs, freelance jobs. I watched others get agents, get editors, get contracts, get published.
And I kept writing.
Frustration set in. A sense of futility. Depression. Despair. I took hope, no matter how slim, from wherever I could find it: horoscopes, songs, fortune cookies. I picked up lucky pennies and wished on stars.
And I kept writing.
I knew that nothing and no one could guarantee I’d ever get published, but I myself would guarantee that I didn’t if I stopped.
And then one day, I had it – a finished manuscript. I knew it wasn’t perfect. But some people – my family, my friends – liked it.
It was time to get an agent. Once again, not knowing what I was doing, I got out a big fat guide to literary agencies and sent a letter to every single one that sounded nice. Luckily I got a response from an agent at a very good one – Writers House – inviting me to submit my work. His name was Simon Lipskar. He read my work, told me the good news: “You can write,” then told me the bad news: “You need to do a lot of work on the structure. On plot. On pacing.”
I started again. Rewriting. Reworking. Trimming down a 1,000 page manuscript to a workable size.
I kept writing.
It took me another year to get the manuscript right. Another year of frustration. Of going back and forth with Simon, page by page. Of tears and doubt and worry.
But I kept writing.
And finally, it was done. Again. It was polished and perfect and I thought we’d sell it immediately. I was so wrong.
The manuscript was rejected from every publishing house in New York, and a few outside of it. Simon tried hard to sell it for over a year. And then I got a call. Not The Call, not by a long shot. It was Simon, and he was calling to tell me he’d tried everything and everywhere and he couldn’t sell it. At least, not yet. We had to take a break. Put it on a shelf.
I was so down, I can’t even describe it. Ten years of my life. All that work. All that sacrifice. Such a labor of love. And no one wanted it.
My wonderful husband took me for a weekend away. If he hadn’t, I think I would have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. My mom and dad and sister told me to keep the faith. I thought they were all nuts.
I went back to work. I tried to forget I’d ever written a book. Weeks passed. Then months. It was winter.
I kept writing.
And then one dreary, cold, gray afteroon, as I was sitting at my desk at Saks Fifth Avenue, writing ad copy, the phone rang. It was Simon.
There was excitement in his voice, I could hear it. My heart started thumping. My hands went cold. And sure enough, he said the words I’d been waiting to hear for a decade: “I have an offer for The Tea Rose.” There was an editor a St. Martin’s – a new hire – and she liked it.
It wasn’t riches, not even close. But it didn’t need to be. It was priceless. I said “Yes.” And then I called my huband and my parents, who’d been there for me every step of the way, then I told my copywriting pals, who cheered, and then I went for a walk on Manhattan’s streets – feeling like I finally had a right to walk them, to stand tall upon them.
I bought a bottle of champagne, went home and drank it with my husband, and danced on our dining room table. After ten long years, I’d made it. I was a writer. Soon I’d be an author.
So when it gets hard and cold and lonely, and you think it’s all useless and you’re never going to get anywhere, know that there’s only one thing you should do, only one thing you must do, only one thing you can do: Keep writing.
With best wishes,
Jennifer
December 30, 2014
ROGUE WAVE GIVEAWAY!
Dear Goodreaders,
I'm giving away three signed copies of ROGUE WAVE!
Go to the goodreads ROGUE WAVE page to enter, and good luck!!!!
Jennifer
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
I'm giving away three signed copies of ROGUE WAVE!
Go to the goodreads ROGUE WAVE page to enter, and good luck!!!!
Jennifer
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
December 29, 2014
A New Year, Three New Books!
Dear Goodreaders,
Whew! What a year!
It’s been all work and no play, but I’m SO excited to tell you that I have three books coming out in 2015!
ROGUE WAVE, the second book in the Waterfire Saga, launches on January 6. In DEEP BLUE, worlds blew apart. ROGUE WAVE follows our mermaids as they figure out how to pick up the broken pieces – of their realms and their lives – and fit them back together. It’s not easy. Or pretty. To triumph in their changed world, the mermaids need to change, too. As they hunt for their talismans, they find reserves of courage and cunning they didn’t know they had. They face down danger and death, only to endure a game-changing betrayal. And one comes face-to-face with a seriously bad dude – but will she live to tell the others?!
That gets answered in DARK TIDE! I just finished the first draft a few days ago. I’m polishing it a bit, and then it goes to my editor. First drafts are such weird things. You feel great because the dragon has been slain – but then your editor gets hold of the manuscript and tells you, “Um, actually it’s not dead yet. In fact, it’s still burning down the village.” You get an editorial letter – aka a bucket of cold water over your head – which tells you everything that’s wrong. After you get done stamping your feet and throwing things, you get busy again. And again. And again. And bit by bit, as you cut and polish, the book gets better. Tighter. Harder. Brighter. I’ve gotten to know Astrid better in DARK TIDE, and Ling, too. It’ll be out in the Fall of ’15. I’ve had a sneak peek at the cover – and I can tell you, it’s gorgeous! Maybe the best one yet!
Also coming in Fall ’15 is THESE SHALLOW GRAVES. It’s a return to familiar ground for me in that it’s historical fiction, but it’s new, too – because it’s my first full-on mystery. Set in gilded age New York, it follows the story of Jo Montfort, an American aristocrat. Jo lives a life of old-money ease. Not much is expected of her other than to look good and marry well. But when her father dies due to an accidental gunshot, the gilding on Jo’s world starts to tarnish. With the help of a handsome and brash reporter, and a young medical student who moonlights in the city morgue, Jo uncovers the truth behind her father’s death and learns that if you’re going to bury the past, you’d better bury it deep. I love, love, love the cover for TSG and can’t wait to share it with you!
Happy reading,
Jennifer
Whew! What a year!
It’s been all work and no play, but I’m SO excited to tell you that I have three books coming out in 2015!
ROGUE WAVE, the second book in the Waterfire Saga, launches on January 6. In DEEP BLUE, worlds blew apart. ROGUE WAVE follows our mermaids as they figure out how to pick up the broken pieces – of their realms and their lives – and fit them back together. It’s not easy. Or pretty. To triumph in their changed world, the mermaids need to change, too. As they hunt for their talismans, they find reserves of courage and cunning they didn’t know they had. They face down danger and death, only to endure a game-changing betrayal. And one comes face-to-face with a seriously bad dude – but will she live to tell the others?!
That gets answered in DARK TIDE! I just finished the first draft a few days ago. I’m polishing it a bit, and then it goes to my editor. First drafts are such weird things. You feel great because the dragon has been slain – but then your editor gets hold of the manuscript and tells you, “Um, actually it’s not dead yet. In fact, it’s still burning down the village.” You get an editorial letter – aka a bucket of cold water over your head – which tells you everything that’s wrong. After you get done stamping your feet and throwing things, you get busy again. And again. And again. And bit by bit, as you cut and polish, the book gets better. Tighter. Harder. Brighter. I’ve gotten to know Astrid better in DARK TIDE, and Ling, too. It’ll be out in the Fall of ’15. I’ve had a sneak peek at the cover – and I can tell you, it’s gorgeous! Maybe the best one yet!
Also coming in Fall ’15 is THESE SHALLOW GRAVES. It’s a return to familiar ground for me in that it’s historical fiction, but it’s new, too – because it’s my first full-on mystery. Set in gilded age New York, it follows the story of Jo Montfort, an American aristocrat. Jo lives a life of old-money ease. Not much is expected of her other than to look good and marry well. But when her father dies due to an accidental gunshot, the gilding on Jo’s world starts to tarnish. With the help of a handsome and brash reporter, and a young medical student who moonlights in the city morgue, Jo uncovers the truth behind her father’s death and learns that if you’re going to bury the past, you’d better bury it deep. I love, love, love the cover for TSG and can’t wait to share it with you!
Happy reading,
Jennifer
December 28, 2014
ROGUE WAVE Pre-Launch Party!
Dear Goodreaders: Hope you can join me at my local (Rhinebeck, NY) indie bookstore!
April 30, 2014
DEEP BLUE Giveaway!!
Dear Goodreaders,
DEEP BLUE's pub date -- May 6 -- is coming right up and I'm kicking off the celebrations with a giveaway! Three readers will win signed and personalized copies of the hardcover. Fins crossed for you!
xo, Jennifer
DEEP BLUE's pub date -- May 6 -- is coming right up and I'm kicking off the celebrations with a giveaway! Three readers will win signed and personalized copies of the hardcover. Fins crossed for you!
xo, Jennifer
February 10, 2014
Superheroes
Dear Goodreaders: I have to share this with you. I scored the coolest accessory ever from Strand Books in NYC this weekend! 
This neon pencil case -- with my fave superheroes on it: Dante, Bronte, Melville, Shakespeare, Austen, Homer and Wilde. I love this bookstore so much, I lose all restraint when I'm there. I bought so many books yesterday that I threw my back out carrying them home. Who knew reading could be so hazardous?! But that's me, living life on the edge.
While I was in the city, I saw Superman's -- er, Shakespeare's -- funniest play, Twelfth Night. It was among the best three hours of my life. I'm not sure I have ever laughed harder, and I know I have never been transported so completely. For those precious 180 minutes, I was in London at the Globe theater in the early 1600s. It's about to close in NY, but thankfully, the Globe is being kept alive by the insanely great Mark Rylance -- so see something by this company sometime if you can.
This neon pencil case -- with my fave superheroes on it: Dante, Bronte, Melville, Shakespeare, Austen, Homer and Wilde. I love this bookstore so much, I lose all restraint when I'm there. I bought so many books yesterday that I threw my back out carrying them home. Who knew reading could be so hazardous?! But that's me, living life on the edge.While I was in the city, I saw Superman's -- er, Shakespeare's -- funniest play, Twelfth Night. It was among the best three hours of my life. I'm not sure I have ever laughed harder, and I know I have never been transported so completely. For those precious 180 minutes, I was in London at the Globe theater in the early 1600s. It's about to close in NY, but thankfully, the Globe is being kept alive by the insanely great Mark Rylance -- so see something by this company sometime if you can.
January 26, 2014
Deep Blue: Something Rich and Strange
Dear Good Readers:
Hi and welcome to my new Goodreads page! I'm no digerati, so bear with me as I figure this out ... but I'm looking forward to hanging with my fellow word nerds (can I call you that? If I admit I'm one?)!!
I have a new book! It’s called Deep Blue and it's the first book in a new series called the Waterfire Saga. It will be published on May 6.
This project marks a sea change of sorts for me. It’s my first fantasy series, and it’s the first time I’m writing for the 10 and up age group.
Every book I write takes me on a journey, and this one has been, fittingly, rich and strange. Get the story behind the story here.
Hi and welcome to my new Goodreads page! I'm no digerati, so bear with me as I figure this out ... but I'm looking forward to hanging with my fellow word nerds (can I call you that? If I admit I'm one?)!!
I have a new book! It’s called Deep Blue and it's the first book in a new series called the Waterfire Saga. It will be published on May 6.
This project marks a sea change of sorts for me. It’s my first fantasy series, and it’s the first time I’m writing for the 10 and up age group.
Every book I write takes me on a journey, and this one has been, fittingly, rich and strange. Get the story behind the story here.
