by Rob Loughran
This one for Writer’s Journal:
AMERICAN IDYLL
Rejection sucks.
It hurts and it will never not hurt: salt is salty, sugar is sweet, rejection hurts. But it is as necessary as it is painful. And the lesson isn’t (pick one):
When the going gets tough, the tough get going.
It’s darkest before the dawn.
It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.
And blah, blah, blah…
The lesson of rejection is, simply, The Words On The Paper Are What Define You. Your worth as a writer isn’t, and can’t be, judged independent of your talent. You aren’t judged by the editor on merit of How Hard You’ve Worked, How Badly You Want It, or Your Intrinsic Worth As a Human.
It’s the words on the paper.
Yes, there are fortuitous circumstances where an editor read a poem on the web and went to the writer’s blog, read her first novel and offered her a $1,000,000 multi-book deal. There are also some clunky, less than sterling-silver-tongued writers who succeed wildly. But we all know that these are the exceptions. Most of us labor—honestly, with integrity and fervor—and still can’t afford to quit our day job.
A TRINITY OF EVENTS
I am at a point in my writing career where I am simplifying and concentrating my efforts. Instead of writing query letters and articles and a screenplay a year and keeping up with monthly California Writers’ Club meetings and my monthly column for the newsletter and my critique group AND finishing my novel The Tantric Zoo I am going to go back to basics.
I work nights in a bar so I have all this energy (frustration) when I get home late after work. Instead of, as I usually do, starting a scene or a story based on something that happened at the bar I’m doing a-lesson-a- day from Gene Perret’s Comedy Writing Workbook. It’s about the third or fourth time I’ve been through the book and it is a difficult, hands-on workout. A wonderful slap in the face. It is a nuts and bolts approach to writing that stresses perspiration over inspiration. I am, simply, a better writer after doing the course than I was previously. It’s like lifting weights and riding a bicycle in preparation for ski season. The work makes you better.
I’ve also decided that, on a regular basis, I’m only going to write short stories and novels.
That’s it.
So I finished up, last week, a last assignment for Trail Runner magazine and edited a longish letter for a local business. All I had to do was read 52 pages of a novel-in-progess for my final critique group meeting and I was free (always somewhat of a curse, because now there are no excuses) to write fiction exclusively.
But those 52 manuscript pages were filled with run-on sentences and split infinitives and passive constructions and all-in-all pretty dreadful writing. The manuscript looked like it was bleeding when I was done with my corrections. I felt terrible about attending the monthly critique group because all I had to say was bad, bad news. I almost called at the last minute, pleading sickness-family-work-weather-bad- horoscope so I wouldn’t have to deliver the news about the manuscript.
(I write poorly, at times we all do, but this writing was so flawed most people—certainly not an editor—would have finished reading it.) At the meeting, avoiding eye contact (yes, I’m a wussy who dislikes confrontation) I waded through the work with plenty of “helpful” examples and suggestions.
The clinical tone I adopted only added insult to injury: as if delineating the need for an autopsy on a recently deceased child would allay the mother’s pain and make everything just zippy.
Needless to say, the critique went over like a fart in church and we both felt like crap. No happy literary ending here folks. We e-mailed each other the next day and are and will remain friends, but the critique group (a five year relationship that I benefited from greatly) is done.
With that sting still fresh I went to work that night and served drinks for eight hours. After work, physically beat and not wanting to write I channel surfed and found a documentary entitled Tom Dowd & The Language of Music. It surprised me that I had never heard of Tom Dowd. He produced records for Ray Charles, Eric Clapton, Aretha, Miles Davis, Otis Redding, Booker T and the MGs, Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, The Allman Brothers and a multitude of my other favorites. Dowd developed and built the eight track recording system that revolutionized the industry. He was a brilliant, hard-working, humble man—an artist in his own right. And, when he spoke on camera, you could tell he loved his work, took pride in his accomplishments and really never regretted that he didn’t have more fame and fortune. I sat in my living room realizing that the pain of rejection is directly linked to my expectations.
I was humbled by this man.
Tom Dowd, who in his life revolutionized an industry, is little more than a footnote on the back of album covers. Yet he lived a full, artistic, happy life. Forget about growing and improving as a writer: I just needed to grow up.
Period.
The third occurrence in this Trinity of Events was watching
American Idol.
I had never watched it before. Watching these poor dolts who couldn’t carry sheet music without losing a page I thought: Don’t these people have friends?
If my bartender buddy Josh said he was flying to Seattle to audition for American Idol the conversation would go like this:
Josh: “I need this weekend off.” Rob: “What for?”
Josh: “I’m going to be the next American Idol.”
Rob: “But your singing sucks. Don’t go you frigging idiot.”
My second thought was: Thank God I’m a writer.
My failings and flubs and faux pas are read privately by an editor and sent back with a polite, if somewhat impersonal note. But I have to admit, when I finish a book or a story and send it off; I crave the same response that American Idol contestants covet: Fame, Fortune, Happiness. This is the American Idyll: being rewarded extravagantly for, simply, doing what we are passionate about.
There is nothing wrong with this; there is everything right in striving for your dreams. But talent is talent, not all of us have it and that’s why it is rewarded.
This is not exclusively an American frailty, it’s a human frailty that’s been encouraged and exacerbated by American Pseudo-Culture. Andy Warhol’s 15 minutes have been reduced to a requisite 15 seconds. I don’t say this because I feel superior to the poor schlubs who show up on TV with a song rendition that should never have left the shower stall, but because I feel precisely like them. I want my writing appreciated and lauded and purchased because I try hard; because it has always been my passion; because I am a decent person.
But it will never happen for those reasons.
The Words On The Paper Are What Define You As A Writer. Simple. An ineluctable fact of life.
When your story/poem/article/novel is rejected that’s precisely what it means. The words on the paper didn’t work—this time. The good news is we can improve. Donald Westlake said, “No one is born a pro.”
I know, despite what I write here, I’ll never be able to dismiss rejection. It will always sting. But it doesn’t have to devastate and paralyze my future attempts.
Be strong; I’m trying.
* * *
This one for The Forestville Gazette:
HOW TO CHEAT AT THE PUBLISHING GAME…AND WIN
My name is Rob. I’m a cheater.
Hi Rob!
I’ll confess, but I don’t want to rehabilitate. I’m proud of how and why I cheated. For nearly five years I tried to get my book High Steaks published. I read Writer’s Digest magazine and attended seminars on marketing your novel and laid out thirty bucks a year for an updated copy of The Writer’s Market. And I did what they told me: I wrote a cover letter outlining my publishing credits and bundled it up with the first four chapters of High Steaks; included a synopsis and an SASE for the editor’s convenienc
e. I marked down the date, the publisher, and the editor in a submissions journal.
The SASEs returned (anywhere from three months to a year; some are still out there in orbit) with a form rejection slip. I did, however get a bite, and sent in, along with High Hopes, High Steaks. The manuscript returned with a form rejection slip: Not For Us At This Time —The Editors. That’s okay, I’d been writing professionally for over twenty years and I know that rejection is part of the game; it bothers me about as much as the speedbumps in the Safeway parking lot.
My wife, not so calm.
Inserted into a colorful torrent of obscenities (she works with truck drivers—“colorful” truck drivers) was the observation that the manuscript had red wine stains and crumbs all over it. “Not for *#!~ us at this #@!~*& time? It looks like the %$^^+ passed it around at their #`!#**&+ Christmas party!” She was right. It had made the rounds of some office affair. Other High Steaks manuscripts were requested and returned in better states of repair, but with the same rejection slip. High Steaks is 80,000 words, which is roughly 450 manuscript pages. The cost of paper, printer cartridges, mailers, postage and RETURN postage ain’t cheap and I couldn’t go ahead like this indefinitely for two reasons. First the cost, but more crucial: I ran out of publishers.
Not every publisher accepts unagented submissions and there is a giant Catch-22: Publishers won’t read a novel unless it’s agented, but you can’t get an agent unless you’ve had a book published.
Horse puckey!
So after, literally (I actually—not figuratively—know what this word means) being rejected by every English speaking mystery publisher in the world (an Australian imprint almost picked it up) I cheated.
I took my cousin’s name, started a new e-mail account, and using my address started the Brad Morrison Agency. I designed (easy on the computer) some BMA stationery and envelopes and wrote a letter about me in the third person, including sample chapters of the book and a synopsis. Two things happened: the manuscript was requested and read. It was rejected—like I said, part of the publishing game—but I (er, I mean Brad) didn’t receive form rejection letters. I received personal letters outlining why they couldn’t use it. Apparently agents are higher on the food chain than writers. One rejection slip I have framed in my office with the phrase “a tad too sexy and cavalier and explicit for my tastes” Yes! To slightly misquote General Patton: “You read my book you magnificent bastard!”
I admit it was a deception, but a necessary one; what was I supposed to do, give up? Writing a book is hard work, and I knew, in my gut that the book was good enough. Although this cheating opened the door to several publishers, High Steaks was finally published because it won a national contest—Salvo Press’ New Mystery Award—where publication was part of the prize.
I’ve since finished another novel, which is into a publisher, and I’m finishing up my third novel. Perhaps because I can list High Steaks among my credits, doors will be open for me that were closed previously. But if they aren’t The BMA will ride again.
Proudly.
* * *
For my novel High Steaks I took Petaluma Cattleman’s—customers, employees, and the building—and plopped down a dead body. It won the 2002 New Mystery Award, then was optioned and written as a screenplay but never produced. This essay appeared in SCR(i)PT:
APPLES AND ORANGES: ADAPTING YOUR NOVEL FOR THE SCREEN
When I had an opportunity to adapt my novel High Steaks into a script I thought, much like Union soldiers who thought they’d be home from the war for Christmas: “Great, it’ll take a week; two tops.” But turning an 82,000 word, 255 page book into a 17,000 word 112 page screenplay was probably the most exacting and arduous writing task I’ve ever accomplished.
The first thing I did was re-read the book. It had been written over four years ago and there are scenes and characters that you simply forget—even though you’d written them. About halfway through the book the enormity of the task hit me: roughly three out of every four words would have to be removed, but all the humor and action spiced up. It was, almost literally, trying to make an apple pie out of oranges.
So I went for a walk.
When I returned, I dusted off Linda Seeger’s The Art of Adaptation: Turning Fact and Fiction into Film. That helped greatly as it had a few years ago when I adapted one of my short stories into a movie. But I was still daunted by the size of this writing and editing task. In the next two weeks, I wrote scene-by-scene, and the first 57 pages of the book came in at about 50 pages. At that rate the movie would be four-hours-plus. Much, much too long.
Then I read an interview of Eric Axel Weiss, who adapted Robert O’Connell’s Buffalo Soldiers for the screen. Weiss stated: “I find the one thing that I love when reading a novel—whether it’s the character, tone, setting, etc.—and that is what I somehow preserve in my script.”
When I tried to get High Steaks published (a four year process) I ran out of publishers who read unagented works. So I undertook a mild deception. I borrowed my cousin’s name and phone number and created the BMA Agency. I wrote editors about me in the third person and signed them Brad Morrison. This did two things: 1) the manuscript was requested by editors and eventually published, and 2) I received honest and helpful criticism of the book. Instead of the Not For Us At This Time form rejection I (Brad) received truly helpful constructive criticism. One particularly prized rejection slip had the phrase “a tad too sexy and cavalier and explicit for my tastes”.
That’s exactly the tone I was after and, heeding Weiss’ advice, was what I decided to preserve in the script.
NUTS&BOLTS
I went at it a bit differently the second go-round. I made a copy of the original text’s diskette, booted it up, and switched the formatting to single spacing. This shortened the book by about a third. Then I went and removed descriptions and my narrative voice. Still, it was—without even being in script format—around 170 pages. Then I remembered a tip: When writing a script always use courier or elite fonts because the script format—designed to be one page equal to one minute screen time—was designed when people were writing on typewriters: in courier and elite typeface.
I changed it from arial to courier and got it down to about 150 pages. I had no idea that simple typeface could make that big of a difference. But I could work with 150 pages.
High Steaks is a murder mystery that takes place in Nightingale, Nevada. The town and citizenry itself is a character in the book. I could show the town; but I had to eliminate and combine so many characters in order to drive the plot forward. The book also has a series of letters from someone who has died, that appear throughout the course of the narrative. I had to eliminate all but three of these letters: too much voice over is deadly. In the book the letters aren’t intrusive because, well, you’re reading. In the movie I had the characters read the letters during on screen activities (a horserace, a Native American dance troupe performing, and a greasefire in a steakhouse) so as not to lose the audience.
RUTHLESS
A script is rather bare-bones compared to a novel and I had to edit ruthlessly—eliminating some of my favorite characters in order to pass the snooze test. The snooze test is how I double check my texts between rewrites. My wife gets a cup of tea or glass of wine (depending on the time of day) and lies down on the bed. I read in a dull monotone (I want the words to supply the meaning, not any inflection or theatrics on my part) and anyplace I lose her—even if it’s slightly unclear—she starts snoring. I mark the spot and—usually she’s right; I was too verbose or vague—fix it. She’s not a writer, but she has no patience with a slow movie or book.
I also noticed that the killer (I won’t tell you who) came across as a lot more ruthless in the script, because I eliminated the narrative backstory about a terrible childhood that made the murderer at least a bit sympathetic. The other fact that amazed me is that with all the cutting and melding of characters that a few minor characters in the book stoo
d out prominently in the movie. Davis, the main character who solves the murder, isn’t a cop (he owns the local steakhouse, High Steaks, get it?) so he needs some muscle when he confronts the bad guys. This comes in the form of an ex-Navy Seal who is visiting town. The ex-sailor’s role in the book (he doesn’t appear until the final 60 pages) is expanded in the movie because everything else is so pared away.
The entire project took two or three false starts, a ton of rewrites, and about three months. So, is the book better than the movie? I honestly can’t say; but the script and the book are now completely different entities.
Like apples and oranges.
* * *
The Bohemian published these thoughts on the Afghanistan war:
AND GO TO YOUR GOD LIKE A SOLDIER
I’m a writer and when I’m writing fiction I read non-fiction because if I read fiction I’m constantly comparing and contrasting my work with what I’m reading. That leads to doubt which greatly hinders any progress in my own novel.
Right now I’m reading a biography, The Man Who Would Be King: The First American in Afghanistan by Ben McIntyre. It’s the story of a Pennsylvania Quaker named Josiah Harlan who left America after being jilted by his true love. Harlan traveled to India and functioned as a soldier, spy, surgeon, naturalist, and writer. He journeyed up into Afghanistan as an agent provocateur for the exiled Afghan king. He spoke Persian and several other local languages and became commander-in- chief of the Afghan armies. In 1838 he traced the footsteps of Alexander the Great, across the Hindu Kush and—get this—conquered and created his own kingdom. But before Harlan could rule in any significant way he was ousted by the invading British.