Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 27

Finding the Discipline

I'm sitting here in bed nine hours before I want to publish this post and I don't want to write it. 

It's not like I'm trying to write something difficult, or that there's something I know I need to say and I can't find the bravery to write the hard thing, it's just I don't want to do it.

And this is one of the biggest lessons I learned with publishing: sometimes (most times), the work seems tedious. Sometimes, you get too tired to meet your word count goal. Sometimes, the proposal due in two days seem impossible.

For two months, I wrote furiously toward my goal of finishing Come Alive. By the end of the second month, I'd written 55,000 words and knew where I was going and how I would end. But when life happened and a break was necessary, it was almost impossible for me to get back in the game. 

It took me a year and a half to finish the novel.

Finding the discipline to write and hone your craft will be the best thing you can give yourself as a hopeful author. WIthout discipline, the sample chapters will just be some nebulous ideas in the back of your mind. Without discipline, all of those incredible blog post ideas and networking strategies will lay waist in an unopened file on your computer. 

But eventually, you'll realize 500 words really isn't that much at all. The word count goals and deadlines and lack of inspiration suddenly twist in your favor and you remember why you love writing in the first place. It's happened every single time I can't find the words. If I just sit and wait—sit and write the words even if they make no sense—eventually something is going to click and I'm going to find the muse.

When I taught, I always told my students if they wanted to write well they needed to do two things: they needed to write a lot and they needed to read a lot. Facebook won't make you a better writer. Twitter won't help you finish your manuscript. But finding a rhythm within the life you live to write every day will get you that much closer.

Because if I know anything, it's that books get written by sitting down and actually doing the work. 

For Love of Beta Readers

This week, I'm covering a few things I wish I knew before publishing my book. It's not a comprehensive list for sure, but it's a little bit of what I've learned this past year. 

I've gotten to be a pro of one thing since publishing Come Alive: letting others read my work before sending it off into the world.

I'm not saying I don't know how to stand on my own words. There are moments where it's necessary to trust myself and the words burning in my chest. But when it comes to something longer than say, a blog post, I know hearing feedback from others is essential in writing well. 

I know Stephen King warns against this. I know there are others who say don't let anyone not even your dog or distant Aunt Martha read your words until they're on the pages of a paperback sold in stores, but I don't agree. 

After publishing Come Alive, conversations started happening between my friends and I about how I would change the manuscript. When I finally let go of the "if-only's" and started working on a novella, I created a list of people who would read chapters for me as I wrote them. This created two things for me: accountability in writing and consistency within the plot. 

I know this now: I won't ever write a manuscript without a few people behind me reading as I go, helping me clarify the messy parts and encouraging me to keep going, keep writing, keep pushing through until the end.

What a beta-reader is :: a cheerleader, a butt-kicker, a clarifier, a crystallizer.

Though some of them may be gifted in the art of editing, their main position isn't to catch every single one of your dangling modifiers or unnecessary thats. The raking through with a fine-toothed comb comes later with an actual editor. And, if you're wise, you'll pay them what they're worth which is basically comparable to saving your life + dignity. 

Right now, you're just needing to finish. And, thankfully, your beta-readers can help you.

What do they get? Well, most of all, they get the thrill of watching a manuscript unfold before their eyes. Most betas sign up for the opportunity to read as you write and don't expect anything more, but sometimes you can throw in a surprise or two. For me, my betas receive all of the chapters as I write as well as the finished copy once it's completely done and revised. And when I finally pick up the novella again [sheepish grin] I will probably throw in a few surprise story-coaching sessions as well because of their patience in waiting. 

There's something to be said of holding your words close to your chest for a little while before sharing them with everyone. I get that—I do. But I won't ever send off a manuscript without multiple people reading over it first, letting me know what I missed or what they find lacking. And it's not because I don't trust my words or need some sort of validation. I've seen what happens when you try to go it alone. I've lived it. I don't want to do it again.

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Knowing the Industry

This week, I'm covering a few things I wish I knew before publishing my book. It's not a comprehensive list for sure, but it's a little bit of what I've learned this past year. 

When I first started pursuing publication, I had no idea the difference between self publishing and vanity press. I didn't know why you would send in a query first and then, maybe—if you're asked—you would send in a proposal. 

Not to mention sample chapters and how to find a cover-artist or whether or not to hire a publicist or the difference between uploading a PDF to Amazon vs. actually taking the time to convert it to the file needed for ePub. It's dizzying, really—all of the pieces of information floating around. 

Which is why you need to research.

Planning on self-publishing a book? Research copy-editors and content-editors and how much they charge [often by the word]. You don't want to upload an unfinished, underdeveloped and poorly executed manuscript - so the time [and money] invested here is crucial. Also, make sure you know the type of file you'll need to upload your book as well as any possible graphic designers who can make your manuscript [both in cover design + content] pop in a way that sets you apart from other self-pub authors.

Wanting to go the traditional route? Hit up agents first. Study those who are accepting queries. Research who represents your favorite authors. If you know anyone who has an agent, ask them what they've learned and what they'd suggest. And begin working on your proposal. This needs to be top-notch and pitch perfect. Don't know where to start? I'm only a few pages into Danielle LaPorte's Your Big Beautiful Book Plan and it's turning out to be an incredible investment.

Don't be afraid to ask questions. Finding the right agent + the right publisher is an absolute requirement if you want your book to get anywhere in the traditional market.

It's not enough to toss out your manuscript on a wing and a prayer hoping someone will pick it up as the next Pulitzer. If I've learned anything over these past few years, it's that these things take work and most of the time, if it sounds too good to be true there's probably a hidden caveat somewhere. Do some soul-work. Where are you wanting your words to land? Go there. Do the research on what it takes to create a killer query letter and proposal to land the publishing team of your dreams.

Most of all: get people behind you who will help you through those moments where you want to throw in the towel because there will be many of those. Promise. If you have the right people, though—they'll push you forward even when you want to crawl into a hole and hide. Trust me. It really does take a village.

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Intro :: What I Wish I Knew

My entrance into the world of publishing didn't happen like most. 

I never wrote a query letter, never pitched a proposal.

But in the middle of writing Come Alive, I knew these words were morphing into something I wanted to share. It went from a challenge I gave myself to something I wanted others to read. This both terrified and excited me. 

So I purchased a copy of Writer's Market and went through the sections on agents and publishers. My calendar started filling up with goals of who to email, who to research, and how many words I wanted to write. 

And then life happened and my 55,000 word manuscript sat on the shelf for a few years before a friend encouraged me to finish it and submit it to a contest hosted by a new publishing house looking for authors.

I made myself a deal. I'd work to finish the novel, and if I finished by the deadline I would send it in—if not, I would at least have worked more on the story than I had in the past few years combined.

I finished the last 10,000 words and sent in a [very rough] copy of Come Alive and made the finals of the competition. 

I didn't win, but making the finals gave me the energy to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a place for Stephanie's story in the world. I sent out a tweet, asking for direction about this new thing called "self-publishing" and received a lot of information about vanity presses, pdf-.mobi conversion and questions about whether or not it even worked. 

And then Rhizome sent me a DM, telling me to check my email.

Apparently they wanted to publish Come Alive anyway. I agreed to step on board with the publisher and signed for a ePub version of my novel to release December 2011. 

So even though it took close to three years for my book to find its home, the time period between me finishing the manuscript and someone picking it up was only a few months. 

This is not normal. 

I learned quickly that sometimes, the rules of publishing don't apply. Sometimes, you don't have to search endlessly for an agent. Sometimes, your book just happens to fall into the hands of a hopeful publishing house just starting their search for authors. Sometimes, things just fall into place and you find yourself with a book deal when you weren't even looking for one. And these can be good things. Awesome, even. 

But it doesn't mean it's perfect or right or the way you should go.

Would I trust my manuscript in the hands of a fledgling publishing house now? No. I wouldn't. If I could do things over, I would do a few things differently - 

I would take the time to make Come Alive the best it could be before sending it in to a publisher [seriously. I cringe with this statement. You have no idea how rough it was...]I would slow my roll with just getting my words out and pursue representation. A good agent who knows and believes in my words equates to gold in the publishing world.
[or]
I would research possibilities of self-publishing, including hiring and editor+publicity team. 

Going into publishing, I knew nothing—nothing—about the nitty gritty. I didn't  know networking was so important. I didn't know I could advocate for my words. I didn't know the punch in my gut was worth pursuing when things got sketchy. I didn't know there were other options, and when I realized there were, I had no idea how to follow them.

This week, I'll be talking about what I wish I knew back when publishing was just a whisper of a possibility. I don't know everything, but I do know some things, and hopefully by the end of the week you'll know that if you have a manuscript or are toying with the idea of actually writing that book you've been wanting to write you'll know two things: you're not crazy and you can do this.

The Schedule -

Monday - Knowing the Industry
Tuesday - For Love of Beta Readers
Wednesday - Finding the Discipline
Thursday - What I Know About Agents
Friday - Encouragement :: You Aren't Crazy For Wanting to Write a Book

all things - even this - even now [side b]

The lesson of Him making all things new isn't something I'm just now realizing. He's mentioned it to me a time or two before—how He's in the business of a different kind of redeeming, one that juts up against our self-inflated know-how.

Now I'm just beginning to finally believe it.

If you've been around here for any time at all, you know my book deal turned out to be less than what I hoped. Come Alive, in all of it's imperfect glory, would be what you call a publishing disaster. 

But.

[and this is where I'm reminded all things]

Last week, I sat with some friends-who-are-like-family and told them about my current struggle - trying to figure out why editing Come Alive feels so much like pulling teeth. 

And toward the end of my own fumbling through words and fighting back the tears because what I was really doing was admitting a defeat of some kind, my friend looked at me and said, "what you need is to trust. God can redeem even this. And don't stop writing. The enemy is going to try all kinds of different ways to pull you from your calling. And I haven't been reading you long, but from what little I have even I know this is what you're meant to do..." 

Those words spoke healing to places I didn't even know were wounded.

So I'm taking some time to really articulate what it is I want for Come Alive. I'm allowing my heart to grieve the disappointment of receiving a raw deal from people who should have known better. I'm believing in something other for my writing, too - a new agent, a new publisher, a new manuscript. All miracles in their own right.

But these miracles mean nothing if I don't put some elbow grease into them. 

Can God turn a situation around over night? Absolutely. I could get a phone call from an agent before I even finish this blog post. But in my experience, He likes to see us work out our calling in fear and trembling. This is no wine and dine type of faith, you know.

So I'm researching. I'm digging in deep and figuring out how to make Come Alive the best [newbutnotsonew] book you've ever read. And next week, I'll be writing about publishing and what I know and what I'm working through and what I wish someone would have told me way-back-when at the very beginning. I hope you join me.

What are some of your dreams you've let fester? What thoughts and hopes lie dormant? Leave a comment and be entered to win this print from my incredibly talented friend Mandy Thompson. Your dreams are not invisible. Perhaps it's time to embrace them?

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rebel diaries :: confessions of a church worker

Editor's Note ::  I received this anonymous submission from someone who works within a church and has struggled with the frailty of expectation. It's something we don't think about often and I'm so honored she wanted to share her words.

I entered your offices a child, idealistic. I was hungry—no, starved for something or someone to believe in. I anticipated basking in the presence of great saints, soaking in anointing, being mentored in the faith.

I wanted to sit at the feet of great men and women who’d impart their wisdom. I wanted to be recruited into the Lord's Army, ready and willing to wear the camo and all, willing to sacrifice myself if it meant playing a small part in what He was doing here.

I thought, like most lay people do, that what I’d find would be goodness and justice, mercy and love.

I thought you were somehow more empowered to help me connect to the voice of God. Truth be told, I thought you’d hung the moon, and I was ready to give myself to you. I was ready to sacrifice my dreams and hopes, ready and willing to give them up for yours.

But that made this all the harder, the day you fell from grace. My counselor looking at me intently, tears in her eyes, “we call that spiritual abuse.” Oh that word—abuse. It hit my chest like a load of bricks, it wrecked me. 

It was so subtle I almost didn’t see. When you wouldn’t ride in the same car with me…because my body might be dangerous. When you talked to me like a child. When you asked for perfection, and when you requested my dreams in exchange for yours. 

And here’s where I’m supposed to be angry, incensed even.

Here’s where I’m supposed to call you out and tell you that you’ve ruined my love for the church.

But instead, I’d like to thank you. 

When you fell from your pedestal, I was left alone with God. For the very first time, I connected to His voice without the help of a spiritual mentor.

Imagine that!

Him speaking directly to me, imparting His wisdom, calling out my dreams! 

When you fell, my reliance on you died. And in that death, a resurrection—mine to be exact. 

And for that, I’m forever thankful.  

Want more? Maybe even my words in your inbox? Sign up for fresh content here and receive a free copy of my short story collection. I would love to continue the conversation and I won't ever spam you. Promise.You can also find me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter. Let's meet.

all things - even this - even now [side a]

Growing up, there was a skating ring next door to my school. I spent many, many hours perfecting the hokey pokey while rolling around and rushing to get into one of the four corners without busting my other knee. I can still smell the acridity of borrowed skates and nacho cheese and cotton candy. 

But most of all, I remember his hands.

I was in 7th grade. My friends and I sat together on one of those circular benches whispering and giggling about the couple skate we knew was coming up - would they play Mariah Carey? Boys II Men? That new guy with that one song - what's his name - Tony Rich? They decided they had to know and skated off toward the DJ while I stayed behind, guarding our spot. I didn't care about the song, my stomach was too busy playing hormonal pin-ball over the possibility of my crush asking me to skate with him. Rumor around the rink was that he was thinking about it. 

A 40 year old man beat him to it.

When he came up and asked me to skate with him, I thought he was joking at first. I smiled and laughed under my breath - the slow uneasy laugh of one who suddenly feels unbelievably awkward - and he held out his hand. Palm up, fingers curled, wedding band shining.

"I'm serious, Elora. Come skate with me."

I never said yes. I might have muttered okay. I wanted to say no.

The DJ ended up playing Mariah Carey's Sweet Fantasy. And the whole time, I wanted to fall into a hole and disappear. I wanted to rip my hand out of his grasp and wash the warmth away. I tried not to freak out when he tightened his grip. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. 

But I smiled, and I skated, and when it was all said and done I found my friends and ignored their jokes and laughter and hid the pain of seeing my crush skate with someone else because our teacher got to me first. 

//

I completely forgot about this story until last year. My husband came home excited one day because we were invited to a birthday party for one of his coworkers' kids. When he told me he was at a skating rink, I fell apart. After a few hours of him prodding me, I was able to tell him the story of the moment I wanted to say no but couldn't find the words. Of how cheap and used and guilty and stupid I felt for following through with the teacher's request. 

Of how I felt stupid even then - sharing the story and seeing the shock on his face - knowing I should have said no. Knowing there should have been someone else standing in the gap for me - another teacher - a worker at the skating rink - someone - to reach in and look at a 40 something man-handling a middle schooler and force him away. 

But most of all, it shook me to my core because it captured so much of my childhood - finding myself in uncomfortable situations, not knowing how to speak for myself, feeling cheap and used afterward as a result.

And even then, I wasn't sure there would ever be something different.

A few weeks later, we combed through Goodwill in order to find my husband an appropriately tacky velour jacket he could wear. It was the night before the party. He was giddy. I was hesitant. He kept talking about how much fun we would have and I would smile, raise an eyebrow, bite my lip and set my jaw. 

On the way home, he squeezed my hand, “What's going on, love? Are you still nervous about tomorrow? Will you couple skate with me?”

And everything came back - the darkness, the suffocating shame, the invisibility. I blinked back tears and forced a smile, “you know my last experience wasn’t that great, right?” 

“Yeah. I know.” he answered, glancing at me as we drove home. “But this time it'll be different. This time I’ll be there. You'll be safe.” 

The next day dawned and all of the misgivings  seemed quiet compared to the banging around they did in my heart the night before. I looked forward to the party - to the reminiscing and the laughter and the curiosity of whether or not I could even stay upright with four wheels attached to my feet. 

The smell hit me first.

It was the same acridity - the nacho cheese, the cheap middle school cologne, the skates. I grabbed my husband's hand and held tight, taking everything in while he found the party. We sat down on the same upholstered benches and put on the same light brown skates and when my feet touched the rink it made the same rush of squealing and whooshing of skaters whizzing past me as before. 

Nothing had changed. And yet, I felt my husband's hands wrap around my waist as he came up behind me and kissed me on the cheek.

Everything had changed. Including me.

We’d already been around the rink a few times, grabbing each other’s hands and giggling like elementary kids breaking in new sea legs. After the break of pizza and cake slicing and gift-opening, I heard the first few chords of a cheesy love song begin playing over the speakers. I grabbed Russ’ hand and leaned in to whisper, “will you couple skate with me?” 

He looked at me and smiled.

“Absolutely.”

 And we grabbed each other’s hands and gingerly made our way to the rink. 

Later that night, I remembered Joel 2:25 where it talks of restoring the years the locusts have eaten. I thought about my day - of how circular time can be when we stop and think about it - and in my heart I heard the whisper, "I make all things new. Even this. Even now." 

- Check back on Friday for a continuation of this post. - 

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