The Writing Workshop Part I

I have been muttering for some months about my book – the one that I am purportedly writing in my ‘free time’

HA HA HA HA HA HA AH AHA HA HA HA HAHAHAHA * wipes tears from eyes*

and although I had not entirely taken myself seriously in this venture – a sign that I really have been partially reprogrammed by the Stepford cyborg designers – it seems that other people, those I knew before my tenure as wife and mother, are not prepared to let me go to the dark side quite so easily.

The Hollywood Bunny in particular is most insistent on reminding me that I have a brain (it was here somewhere, I am sure I put it near the lunchboxes yesterday. Surely nobody ate it? It’s so..unappetising – full of sawdust, non-sequiturs, unkind thoughts about people who deserve more compassion, delusional self images, unfinished lists etc. Plus it’s well past its sell by date..)
She will insist on talking to me about my blog and ensuing book project with great seriousness and has a very particular way of shaming me into honesty about my secret aspirations for my writing. I’m usually reasonably good at concealing what I really think from people by dint of charming and light hearted self deprecation.  It’s particularly easy to do this here amongst the Americans.  Along with irony and Marmite, that very British characteristic of being humble and self effacing while secretly being extremely pleased with oneself  **false modesty that is socially acceptable**  is utterly alien to them.
Although HB is actually American, she spent enough time in the UK and was married to a Brit for several years to have learned the language, so she knows I have greater ambitions than making peanut butter sandwiches and grumbling about Husband’s failure to spot the dishwasher.  I cannot pretend to her that I regard my creative projects as an offhand little hobby that I don’t really care about, like a prized cashmere sweater I treat like a dirty cotton t-shirt

“Oh? This old thing? I just pulled it out of the laundry basket..”

She fixes me with an intense green stare and asks me, pointedly, how my book is going, how many readers I have on the blog, did I know that the future of publishing is self publishing, throws some terrifying statistics about new media at me and then discusses, as if it had already happened, what I will do when my book is published.

AGGGGHHHH!

This makes me want to put the kettle on, make a cup of tea, read someone else’s novel, find an urgent load of laundry to put on, obscure telephone call to make, non-essential surgery to book (must have that bunion seen to, surely?) write that thank you card to Auntie Enid, procrastinate, procrastinate.

But no. She is merciless.

She’s known me longer than Husband and has watched me move through several successful creative careers before my banishment to Stepford, and now she’s just waiting for me to come out of the domestic fog and be a proper person again.

Last week she sent me a link to a class that she thought I should take called
“The Secrets Behind Writing and Publishing Your First Book” taught by an editor who had worked at Random House in New York.

She said in her email that the company who ran the class was a very reputable one, and she had found all of their workshops useful and good for networking purposes.
But the title alone (so American! So commercial! So promising!) made me immediately distrustful. How could it possibly offer any secrets? How could it not be a giant scam? Who was this ‘freelance editor, formerly of major New York publisher’ anyway?  I hate classes! I always fail classes! I can avoid writing my book all by myself! FUCK YOU!!!!

No, I don’t have any issues at all. I don’t have any difficulty in accepting help. I just never need it. So there. Who asked you anyway?

Then I thought about how I had failed to book Five in for camp or any other activities that week and that I was going to be stuck with no time to myself save a dance class or two for nine solid days (yes, weekends are even harder than weekdays because then everyone is home and there is no escape or chance for solitude). If I went to this class in LA I would have a bona fide excuse for leaving town for at least half a day and I might even learn something and meet some interesting people. At the very least I could do a spot of shopping at Target along the way – we don’t have one in Stepford. That might actually have been the most attractive part, if I’m honest.

Husband was agreeable. He always is, the darling. It’s true that he didn’t laugh when I told him I’d bookmarked the dishwasher on his iPhone GPS, but when it comes to the important things in life like supporting my hopes and dreams, letting me sleep when I really need it, buying me beautiful underwear, and unstintingly believing in me, he is the very best of men.

So I fished out my credit card, booked the class online, arranged the requisite babysitting (it was all eerily easy) and last Thursday afternoon I  gaily abandoned the children and thundered down the highway toward the City of Angels.

Oh, before I forget, here is the tale of my side trip to Target. You will recognise this from your own adventures to that great shopping monolith:
I went in. I had fun. I spent $300 on crap. Can’t remember what I bought. The end.

Once arrived in LA I found a free parking space directly outside the venue where the class was to be held. This was a good sign. I am pretty good at finding good parking spots, actually. I find that if I just drive around optimistically saying “I believe in parking angels!” in a Fotherington Thomas stylie then one always appears right when I need it. It really works, even if you feel like a tit! You should try it some time. Anyway, I digress..
I made my way inside one of those designer-office-space-for-rent type places and was shown into a conference room by a friendly but businesslike man who was clearly the teacher. I sat down next to a slightly nervous, twitchy looking man who responded to my smile and greeting by picking up his cellphone and fiddling with it importantly.
Oh dear.
Then one by one the others drifted in. There were eleven of us, of all shapes, sizes and ages and we were all very eager to hear what the editor had to say.
He introduced himself to us, told us we’d be there for four (!) hours, that we had a lot to cover and we’d want to take lots of notes.

I had forgotten my pen.

SHIT!

But I had remembered my laptop so I got it out.

Redeemed.

He then went around the table, got us to introduce ourselves and tell each other what our book was going to be about and if it was fiction/nonfiction/memoir etc. This was very interesting. It was also terrifying because I was not quite sure whether what I’m writing is fiction or nonfiction or memoir. It changes on a daily basis depending on how many lies I’m telling and how serious my tone is or who I’m writing about. I let everyone else go first.

We had: A cooking memoir, a photography book, a self help book, a legal memoir, a business ‘Blink’ type book, a book of political poetry (!!), a book about an illness, one novel (sci fi) and then mine which I suddenly decided was nonfiction about Gen X misfits (like me) and how we parent as a result of our fragmented childhoods, and also how we are positioned to help a new generation of misfits like Max and Kevin.

Dan, our editing tutor, expressed surprise (and relief) that there was only one work of fiction in the class and then told us that it was easier to sell nonfiction in the USA (really? How long was the Bush administration in power here again?) and that this class was not going to be about helping us with the craft of writing. He was going to assume we knew how to do that already.
His class was going to teach us:

How the publishing industry worked

How to write a query letter

How to prepare a good proposal

How to find an agent

What really stupid things not to do

How to be realistic in our expectations in terms of being an author.

How to tackle the business of selling your book both before and after a publishing deal.

And then he spent the next four hours doing just that. It was most illuminating.

One thing I found very interesting was that the publishing industry appears to be almost exactly like the music industry in terms of how it runs as a business model, and also how much one has to take responsibility for as the artist/author oneself, ie the book doesn’t run off the shelf at Borders (or even ON to the shelf at Borders)  by itself, and it all costs money. Big money. And that is not something there is a lot of around at the moment.

It could have been hugely depressing news, and many of the attendants found the class a bit of a downer – the fantasy of being a bestselling author in a single bound volume seemed to be dashed, rather, by the practical advice meted out by Dan the Man, but I was oddly cheered by it. There seemed to be so much one could DO to make things work, rather than sitting around feeling saddened by disempowerment.

I wonder how many of you are thinking about writing a book, or have wondered how to approach publishers and agents?

I am not going to post Dan’s advice today because I have run out of time to blog (must dash and do some book writing – see how organised and efficient I am being? Hollywood Bunny, take note. I am taking myself seriously) but if you are interested in hearing more of what he taught, please leave a comment and I will write a Part II in the next few days with the key advice.

My own advice for the day? Stay away from Target

Mothership xo