Rejection

I won't lie. Rejection is hard. Sure, I'm accustomed to it. After all, I've been dating for more than twenty years. But having my new baby, 'BURBAN BABE, rejected feels a little different. I feel a strong urge to protect my baby by keeping her safely locked up in my room. I know that won't serve her, or me, in the long run. So, I keep sending her out there, hoping one day someone will see what I see and give her a chance.

Rejection, and the role it plays in every aspect of my life, has been on my mind. I guess getting rejected is a part of taking chances by putting yourself out there in the universe. Any time you dare to say, "Here I am," there is a chance someone will say, "So what?" I've decided it's a good thing I get rejected at least once a day, often more. I have dates, clients, and agents all saying, "No, thanks." I keep going, though. Because for every five dates or clients that says no, there is one that says yes. I'm sure there is an agent out there who will think 'BURBAN BABE is worth a peek, and will love my baby as much as I do.

In the meantime, I have my dad's approval. He thought 'BURBAN BABE was funny, sad, deep, and ultimately hopeful. I couldn't ask for a bigger Yes than that.

Greetings from Rehoboth Beach

Hi faithful readers and dad. This posting comes to you from beautiful Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. I decided to treat myself to a solo writer's retreat this summer, otherwise known as a week at the beach. I've managed to avoid burning myself by rigging up a paper towel on a spatula to spread the lotion on my back. But that's not the big news.

The big news from the sandy shore is I finished the rough draft of BAD HEIR. I can't believe it. Perhaps I can't believe it because I know now the real work begins…I've got to massage the plot elements, enhance the characters, and generally make the book interesting and fun to read. Oh, and somewhat plausible. No, I have no idea how long that will take.

In other beach news, I also submitted 'BURBAN BABE to a few agents this week, and already got one rejection back. I've heard "real" writers need to rack up 10,000 rejections before they find the perfect agent who will guide them to fame and fortune. I've got five so far. I can smell the royalty checks already.

All in all, a successful trip. I'm looking forward to the next one.

A Time to Kill

I had to kill someone the other day and I'm still feeling a little sad about it. I liked him, I really did. But he left me no choice. I saw no way out of the situation.

The decision to kill this person was hard. That seems odd considering most readers will expect someone to die in a murder mystery. Murder and mayhem are usually important plot elements. Still, I was unprepared for the grief I felt. I was so sad about killing him that when I got to the part where I had to do it, I couldn't work on the book for a week. I spent that time trying to figure out if someone else could die instead. Someone I didn't like so much. Fortunately, I killed the guy on paper. That means I can, theoretically, change my mind.

This whole thing made me stop and think what goes through a real criminal's mind. I wonder if they feel guilt about their impending actions and procrastinate doing the deed. I don't know, and I never will. I have no intention of gaining any firsthand experience with that particular subject.

Instead, I will quietly mourn the loss of my character, remembering the good times we had.

That Babe is Stylin'

I have a question for you, my faithful blog followers. What is the most interesting teenage slang you've heard recently? I've been hanging out with a 16-year-old lately and I must admit I can't follow the conversation half the time. Slowly, painfully, my friend is educating me about how the phat kids talk. I can't imagine any way in which this skill could be useful to me, unless I write a character who says things like, "Air Force is Stylin'" and "I was too busy with all the locomotion."

A few weeks ago we were at the mall. She launched into a very complicated story about pimping the Air Force. Huh? I nodded my head knowingly through the first 15 minutes of this discussion. When she asked me for my opinion on the matter, I first took a moment to suppress my shock that she cared what I thought, and then I grudgingly admitted I had no idea what she was talking about.

Sneakers. Air Force is a type of sneaker. Apparently they are stylin' and guys who really pimp wear them. Apparently, the complicated conversation had to do with appropriate fashion etiquette.

You can't make this stuff up. I must figure out how to add a teenager into my next book because I can't let it go to waste.