The Inadvertent Author
I am by definition an inadvertent author. At least that's what I tell myself when yet another rejection finds its way to the mailbox I visit so often, my bunion has gone ballistic.
I used to muddle through memoirs and manuscript in mediocre voice, waiting for brilliance to magically transform my maudlin prose into something worthy of an interview with Bat Segundo. I'm still waiting.
I've written of will of the wisp and wrinkles, tigers and terrapin, and reviewed the Best of Broadway until the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd left me delirious. I've stalked stage doors and red carpets, seeking out promenading poodles, masquerading as starlets. I've sparred with paparazzi and a galleycat or two, for a grain of gossip or a smattering of slander, just to secure a byline.
I've blogged with the best of them, and spent countless hours lurking at boards and forums, enviously eyeing edits from published posters. More than once I've wished the same drill sergeant who whipped them into shape would someday demand of me " stop and give me 10 ...books. I've prayed I could, just once, NOT respond to mail from literary agent Ethan Ellenberg by muttering the phrase "Aw, your mother wears Army boots!”
These days, I've stopped lurking and lusting after the successes of others. Instead, I ask myself - what are they doing right, that I'm doing wrong? I listen and watch and learn, actively seeking out criticism, and using it as a vehicle to propel my writing to a higher level. I research everything right down to my protagonist's gene pool, leaving no stone unturned. I write as tight as I can, and then edit the heck out of it. In short, I've stopped waiting and whining, and started writing.
I think, even Miss Snark would agree with that.
there are stones in the gene pool? That explains some of my query letters: they have rocks in their head. At last, all is made clear!
Scoring to come