How I Found the Write Path

This is my contribution to the “How I Found the Write Path” project. Details are HERE.

Dear Me (from 8 years ago),

I know you’re in the middle of writing your first manuscript. You’re going to belt it out in 6 weeks, look at it a few times, and declare it done. Then you’re going to query it.

DON’T.

You’re so naive. You have much to learn.

In fact, if I were you I’d quit NOW. Seriously. (And invest in Apple.)

If you ignore my advice, you’re going to set yourself up for 8+ years of self-doubt.

It’s like being a model—not that I’d know—your friends and family tell you how beautiful you are. When you go on casting calls others will tell you that your eyes are too small, your legs aren’t long enough, and you need to lose 10 lbs. After that, all you’ll see are flaws and all you’ll hear are the comments about what’s wrong with you.

If I can’t convince you to quit—because you already feel the pulse of the ideas flowing through your veins, digging into your marrow, crackling in your nerve fibers—I’ve compiled 8 pieces of advice:

1.     Don’t be hasty. The average writer takes 10 years to become published. (And even then, it’s not like you can quit your day job.)

2.     Don’t wait 5 years to take that grammar course.

3.     Read more books about the craft of writing from the start. (Read lots of fiction too—but I don’t have to tell you that.)

4.     Don’t wait for bouts of inspiration to write or you’ll experience devastating droughts.

5.     Find more critique partners early in your writing journey.

6.     Realize that following 1-5 here doesn’t guarantee you’ll be published faster.

7.     Rough drafts are just that. Most of writing is revising.

8.     When you hit year 7, you’re going to start having “almost made it" moments. Don’t despair.

As I write this, I must admit, I’ve been despairing. A LOT. I’ll read a fantastic novel and think, “I’ll never be able to write this well. I’m a hack.” It’s also hard to hear about the writers who have written for less time and nabbed agents and publishing contracts. Sure, there are writers who toiled for longer before they reached success, but how can I be tough on myself if I concentrate on them? And it’s not jealousy. I’m asking, “What’s wrong with me?”

Try not to compare yourself with other writers’ journeys or anyone’s “rules” for success. You don’t have to write every day (though aim for nearly every day). You don’t have to write a certain word count per day. You don’t have to plot. There are examples of great writers in either the plotting and panstering camp, and most writers are a combo. You’ll read blogs, attend conferences, and workshops where people tell you what you HAVE to do. Just like with critique groups, you’ll get lots of advice, but you have to follow your INSTINCT.

The writing community is amazing. Supportive. Selfless. So, give as much as you get. In fact, give more. Console setbacks. Check in. Lift up. Cheer on. Celebrate successes.

And be sure to reach out for support when you need it.

Much about writing is lonely and angst claws at our gut. Sometimes we resemble that piece of Voldemort’s fractured soul at Platform 9 ¾.

Nobody understands this like other writers.

You’re a bad writer right now. You have to be bad in the beginning in order to get better. A novel is woven with many-colored threads. To become a master weaver, it takes hours of practice and we can always improve.

If you keep at it, be prepared to meet people who say, “I’d like to be a writer, but I don’t have the time.” Writer friends will quit, no matter how much you try to encourage them. You will also contend with people who don’t understand why you’re still doing this writing thing when you no agent or publisher to show for it. And those rejections, even the kind ones, even those “almost” ones, will hurt. In those moments, you’ll need to dig deep to muster the courage to continue.

The thing is, we writers have stories to tell. And when we weave the many threads—we wonder how our brain could accomplish something that amazing. WE DID! We want out stories to touch others the way certain books have saved us. We want those readers to feel like we wrote the book just for them.

On this journey, hold every glimmer of progress to your breast.

We can’t give up.

Because just taking the journey is its own success.

Love,
Theresa

Theresa Milstein
MG and YA Author
"Theresa's Tales" http://theresamilsten.blogspot.com
Permission granted to use this post in the "How I Found the Write Path" e-book

Writers, any advice you'd like to add?  

Diversity and Revenge

Sometimes I read an article that demands: WE need MORE DIVERSITY! 

There are also those posts with colorful charts to show the tiny percentage of covers representing people of diversity. There’s outrage over a book with a clearly dark-skinned main character who has been lightened a few shades like a tooth-whitening commercial. 

Then silence.

Author Ellen Oh has decided to do more.

Here’s her Tumbler campaign LINK. 

This is a 3-day campaign with something new each day. I hope you participate.

Even though I’m not a person of color, I in a very small way remember not feeling represented as a child and teen.

I noticed when most of the superheroes in cartoons were men.

I remember reading Beverly Cleary’s Fifteen. When I realized the girl in the book had short, dark curly hair that frizzed, I did a double-take. Then why did the girl on the cover have blonde hair? Why couldn’t she look like she was supposed to look? Was having brown curly short hair really THAT BAD?

And I think her eyes were brown in the book too.

I had brown curly hair and brown eyes. And I paid attention to what the media showed me. When I grew up, blondes with blue eyes ruled and brunettes played the sidekick. Those blondes had straight or wavy hair. "Three’s Company" was just one example.

And don’t even get me started on Barbie. By the time they made a brunette version, I’d outgrown playing with dolls.

If there was a brunette who broke the mold, I noticed. Everyone knew that Farah Fawcett ruled Charlie’s Angels, but at least Jacqueline Smith wasn’t a sidekick. Wonder Woman and Princess Leia gave me powerful brunettes. Sigourney Weaver was not only a powerful woman, but she also carried the movie.

Then Flashdance came out—a woman with curly hair was the attractive star.

(Didn’t they do a terrible job with the stunt-double’s curly hair?)

As a girl of European descent, if I felt like that with many representations of people like me on billboards and TV shows and books, then what do Asian, Indian, Muslim, Native American, African American, and Hispanic youth think when they see covers of books?

Where are they?

I was a kid a looonnnng time ago.

So much has changed.

Let our stories and our covers finally reflect us in all our varied glory.

Speaking of, before I heard about this campaign, I had chosen early May to promote Medeia Sharif’s new book. Two years ago, she was on my BLOG  for Bestest Ramadan Ever.

My picture for Ellen's campaign.

I'm not wearing makeup, but it's all about the cover,

right???

Now Snip, Snip Revenge is OUT! Perfect timing for Ellen Oh’s campaign.

SNIP, SNIP REVENGE by Medeia Sharif

YA Contemporary, Evernight Teen

Release Date April 25, 2014

Beautiful, confident Tabby Karim has plans for the winter: nab a role in her school’s dramatic production, make the new boy Michael hers, and keep bigoted Heather—with her relentless Ay-rab comments—at bay. When a teacher’s lie and her father’s hastiness rob her of her beautiful hair, her dreams are dashed. The fastest barber in Miami Beach has made her look practically bald. 

With all her pretty hair gone, Tabby doesn’t believe she fits the feminine role she’s auditioning for. Michael is still interested in her, but he’s playing it cool. Heather has taken to bullying her online, which is easier to do with Tabby’s ugly haircut. Tabby spearheads Operation Revenge, which proves satisfying until all of her problems deepen. After messing up, she sets to make things right.

Author Bio

I’m a Kurdish-American author

who was born in New York City, and I presently call Miami my home. I received

my master’s degree in psychology from Florida Atlantic University. After becoming

a voracious reader in high school and a relentless writer dabbling in many

genres in college, I found my niche writing for young people. Today I'm a MG

and YA writer published through various presses. In addition to being a writer,

I'm a middle school English teacher. My memberships include Mensa, ALAN, and

SCBWI.

Find Medeia

Blog   |   Twitter   |   Goodreads   |   Instagram   |   Amazon

Join Medeia's giveaway to celebrate the release of her latest novel.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Aubrie's Alliance

Years ago, Aubrie Dionne and I were crit partners. While I didn't critique this one, it's the last in the series of others I read. Aubrie is one of the most prolific writers I know. She's published with Entangled and several other publishers. During her non-writing time she teaches flute and plays for the NH Philharmonic. (How cool is that?) 

Here's information about Alliance:

“Saving him meant saving her colony…”

Lyra Bryan has been saving people her whole life from a chick in the ventilation pipes to her mentally ill brother when his mind drifts back to Old Earth. She meets her match when she finds a gorgeous alien man aboard the arachnid ship. Captured after a failed attempt to save his people, his spirit is broken, craving only vengeance. To save her colony, Lyra must save his body and soul.

Lyra’s lifemate, Tauren, is jealous of her obsession with the alien man and will do anything in his power to break them apart. While they travel to the arachnid’s home world to defeat the mother brain once and for all, they must set aside their differences and work as a team. But, can Tauren be trusted?

Buy on Amazon

Buy on Barnes and Noble

All About April

I’m on Caroline Starr Rose’s BLOG

 for April Poetry Month.

Come read what I’ve been up to on the poetry front.

And feel free to share a spring-inspired HAIKU. 

Please VISIT! 

And I was lucky enough to meet

the funny and talented 

author Eoin Colfer this week.

Oh, and the winner of the ending to
my ludicrous dream is Old Kitty! 

April is one exciting month!

Juggling

April issue, coming soon!

Vine Leaves Literary Journal has had a few staff changes.

Dawn Ius, co-publishing editor with Jessica Bell, has recently stepped down. The blog post about it is HERE. 

Jessica has needed to do some new hiring. The Vine Leaves staff is posted HERE. 

Since Vine Leaves started in 2012, I’ve been an avid reader. The journal introduced me to vignettes and got me writing them too. My piece “Left Behind” was published in their April issue and in their Best of Vine Leaves, 2012. They also published my poem “Catty-Corner” in their July 2012 issue.

I’m happy to announce I’m now part of the Vine Leaves Literary Journal team, working as a Publishing Editor’s Assistant. My bio is HERE. 

In the last month, I’ve performed a few tasks:

The 1^st task was to set up a Pinterest page. I’d be thrilled if you’d visit, especially if you followed it too. Here’s the LINK. 

Please click it and tell me what you think.

My 2^nd job was to vote on the shortlist poem for the April 2014 issue, which is coming soon.

And now my 3^rd assignment has been to read the 2014 quarter-finalist list for The Annual Vine Leaves Vignette Collection Award and help choose the semi-finalists and grand finalist. Details about the contest are HERE. 

It’s been a rewarding month for me, but I’m adding it to my list of items to juggle:

Family (is a priority always)

My job (gives me satisfaction… and a paycheck)

Special Education classes (are a lot of work but will be done soon-ish!)

Writing: (fulfilling-frustrating-need it like breathing)

Editing (it’s a learning experience and rewarding)

This gives me 5 items to juggle and I’m horribly uncoordinated. Have you seen me dance?

I need to make sure I make time for things that matter and I also need to make sure that I don’t get lulled into treating my responsibilities at Vine Leaves as a replacement for actually writing.

But I won’t let that happen, right?

So the only downside is that I can no longer submit my pieces to Vine Leaves. It’s totally worth it.

What are you juggling now? 

Are all your balls in the air or are you dropping any?

Worst Idea for a Novel Ever

So, I’m dreaming last night…

(Don’t leave. I swear—it’s not just a post where I’m sharing my dream. Mostly.)

And this teenage girl has a pizza. She wants to put it in storage on the Long Island Railroad while she rides home, but they want to charge her $30. So she decides to hold it.

(I agree, not a great opener. While I appreciate her not wanting to spend $30 on really what should be a free service, I don’t see where this dream is going.)

She reaches her stop and walks home with the pizza in hand. She meets a boy. He’s complaining about his lousy job. They walk home together and fall in love.

(While this dream still isn’t compelling, both appreciating a New York pizza is as good a reason to start a relationship as any.)

I already know, as I’m watching these people that he’s going to get too clingy and she’s going to break up with him. He’s going to take this badly and decide to kill her.

(Oh, great… I’m having a nightmare.)

He’s chasing after her. She decides to run home so her dad can help. He’s a cop. Normally, father and daughter don’t get along, but they’re really going to bond when he kills her stalker, psycho ex-boyfriend.

(A cop dad? That’s convenient, don’t you think?)

She runs home. Dad shoots ex-boyfriend in the chest just in time. The boyfriend turns into a female. She’s got a look of surprise (from being shot or changing gender, I'm not sure) and keels over.

I think the story can’t end like this because my main character hasn’t done much to drive the plot, so the woman isn’t going to die. She’s going to chase after her and they’ll have a showdown.

In my dream, I actually say, “And this is how you plot a novel, people!”

(*Cue scratched record sound* Now this dream is a novel? Did dreaming-author me not just notice that the ex-boyfriend turned into a girl? She got shot in the heart, so how’s she going to pursue my main character? It seems my “novel” has plot holes the size of continents.)

My main character (MC) is crying, apparently because now her father is dead. (Another plot hole. When did this happen??? Is this a Quentin Tarantino film where everything is out of order?) The boyfriend who is now a girl grabs the gun and points it at my MC. MC takes a little too long but finally runs away. Boy-turned-girl pursues MC.

MC winds up in a flea market. She’s dodging booths, crowds, ducking under tables. All the while, the ex-boyfriend turned girl is calmly walking with the gun pointing in plain sight and a tank top covered in blood along with a bullet hole.

The MC sees a guy who’s wearing stilettos, but otherwise looks pretty tough. Turns out she knows him. He’s a gun owner. She knows she can borrow a gun from him. But first he introduces her to his three kids.

(So that’s my climax twist? She happens to see someone who owns a gun, which means he’ll have the gun on him and give it to her?)

I wake up.

Now I don’t even know how the novel ends.

But I’m fired up. I’m going to write this novel down that has written itself!

I start reviewing my stellar plot in my mind and reality sinks in.

I turn over and go back to sleep.

You writers who have these dream epiphanies--I’m impressed because my subconscious is this bad.

How would you end my novel-dream?

Best comment wins a $25 Amazon gift card.

Injustices

Last summer,  Old Kitty  posted about Neil Gaiman’s writing prompt in The Guardian.  I saw the post too late, but the prompt stuck in my head:

It wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat.

My story definitely isn’t MG or YA. But it was fun to write. It's short and not very sweet. Enjoy!

Injustices

Theresa Milstein

It wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat.

While the radio murmured about war, government corruption, and other normal injustices, he sipped coffee from the mug in his right hand while the other held binoculars peeping between the blinds. If his ritual went according to plan, the caffeine and the woman dressing for work in the apartment building across the alley would wake him up.

His cursed cat interfered. 

Just as she danced into the bedroom—he always imagined some sexy song from Madonna blasting—and removed her towel, the cat jumped unwelcomed onto his lap. He startled. If the feline’s claws on his genitals hadn’t been jarring enough, the coffee searing his lap soon ruined any further opportunity for arousal.

By the time he’d ripped off the soiled pajamas, rubbed soothing lotion on his sore skin, and changed into new clothes, the woman had left for work.

He’d gone even grumpier than usual to the repetitive job he despised. The doctors sent bills. He made a charade of investigating for fraud, but everyone got paid in the end. If he ran the company, corruption would stop. But nobody listened to people who slaved in cubicles.

When he walked through his doorway after work, he kicked the whining cat out of the way. Everyone wanted something from him.

There would be one last chance to unwind from his sorry day when she undressed for bed. There’d be no towel. No dance. Her moves would be slower and the removal would take longer. But he’d have his moment to imagine she was his.

He sipped his glass of cabernet with his right hand while his left cradled the binoculars peering through the blinds. He’d locked the cat in the closet to prevent a repeat of that morning’s sin. Nothing would interfere with his nightly ritual.

She shuffled into the bedroom, clearly as tired as he felt. He imagined her enduring a job in customer service. If only they could converse about the injustices that led to their lousy day. She would listen. She would understand.

He watched her gaze at her reflection in the mirror, but she couldn’t see him gazing at her. He inhaled, drawing the imagined scent of the perfume on her bureau inside him. As she removed her bracelet, he sat up straighter. She unclasped her necklace. He set down the glass.

That’s when an intruder stepped out of her closet, gun in hand. She noticed the intruder in the mirror’s reflection at the same time he did. Her mouth formed a perfect O as she whirled around.

No! Not his woman. He jumped up, spilling the wine while the intruder closed the curtains across the alley.

He stared at his bleeding pants as the gun fired.

Night was shot too. And what would he do to occupy his time during tomorrow morning’s coffee?