Guest Blogger: Vicious Circle by Susan DiPlacido + Win a Kindle Fire HD!
By Susan DiPlacido
You are a writer.
No. Not yet.
You want to be a writer. You know
you can be a writer. So here’s your
intricate, long-thought, grand plan to accomplish this.
Write.
So you do. Put ass in chair, hit the keys, and turn that
white page into a blur of intentioned, clever, and compelling words. Words that string to sentences, sentences to
characters, characters creating plot and problems, littered with jokes and
allegory and metaphor and any other trick in your arsenal.
Write and keep
writing and then when you’re tired, write some more.
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| Shuffle Up and Deal by Susan DiPlacido |
You’re still
combing the pages you’ve typed but in between you start the research. It’s all a new blur. Queries and critique groups and agents and
publishers. Meanwhile, you’re still
punching the clock every day because even though you’re going to be a writer
and work on your own time, for now, you still have to work on their time to pay
for the electric to run your laptop which will be an instrumental tool to bring
you this new glorious life where you’ll be able to eat caviar and have
champagne wishes or whatever that Brit pudge used to say, but for now you still
have to do the grind and won’t be celebrating with Cristal on the first
go-round but just a decent bottle of vodka you splurged for when you knew you
were getting close to finishing your masterwork.
But, for now,
still, though the pages are polished, the vodka sits in the cupboard,
unopened. Because for now, still, you’re
sending out the queries and having others read your pristine opus and give you
advice. Some it, the advice, it’s
good. Some of it, the advice, it just
pisses you off. Some of it, it’s really
rough. In those instances, you have a
choice to make. Choice one is to pansy
out. Obviously, this wasn’t for
you. Stop now while you’re not out
anything but some time and rethink this whole plan. That’s choice one.
Here’s choice two.
Suck it up and be a
writer, baby.
Suck it up, drink
it down, take it all in, and keep going.
That’s the choice
you make.
The rejections pile
up. When they come in, that is. More
often, you send out the carefully worded letter that you’ve gone over at least
300 times. You spend hours, days, weeks
researching who handles the genre you’ve written. Who would be interested. Mostly, who would help bring you
success. Still, you keep going to work
because you have to pay for the ink and the paper and the copies and the
postage for all these mailings you send out and rarely ever even get a form
rejection about.
Still, the
rejections that do come, they pile up.
Change your
aim. It’s like a bullseye, see. You were going for dead center, but it’s time
to work out in concentric circles. One
ring, the slightly smaller fish. Two
rings, more rejections. Three rings,
more queries sent out into the void with no response. Meanwhile the critiques keep coming
back. Change this character. Delete this paragraph. Eviscerate your soul! Okay.
That wasn’t a real one. It just
feels that way. Okay, it doesn’t feel
that way. It stings a bit, but now
you’re becoming a writer and so you’re prone to hyperbole, particularly when it
comes to your own experiences and emotions tied to this manuscript.
One more ring out
from the center of the bullseye and nothing good happens. You hit the outer perimeter and finally,
mercifully, a positive response.
Consider the
celebratory vodka.
No, wait.
First, there are
revisions. These aren’t the same
revisions your critique group suggested.
Most revert things back to the original.
You could scream, but instead you just sigh because you didn’t keep the
original masterwork, you incorporated changes directly into the original file
so now you’ve got to type it all back in.
But that’s
okay. In fact, it’s great. You’re almost there.
For now, soon at
least -- vodka, but, someday, champagne.
Make the revisions,
submit the book and then, just as you’re thinking of cracking that vodka, in
comes the note. Don’t relax yet. First, there’s cover design, and then
checking the typesetting. Those are
fun. Then there’s promotion. You have to do all this promotion.
What does this
entail, exactly? You don’t know? You should know. You need to do it. Do it all.
Line up blog tours, book readings, contact local media, make press kits,
set up a website, a blog, facebook.
Tweet.
Tweet what exactly?
Just tweet!
Okay! This is what you have to do.
You have to keep
getting up in the mornings and punching the clock and making the money so you
can afford the website and electricity so that you can run your laptop and your
cell so you can tweet and poke people because this is promotion.
Meanwhile, the
vodka waits. Patiently.
You are a writer
now. You have a book being
published. You can get away with
assigning emotions to inanimate objects.
For real. It’s in the rules. Look it up.
But there’s always some douche in your critique group who’s not abreast
of the full writers’ repertoire and who calls you on it. Him saying, vodka can’t be patient, blah
blah. Ignore him.
Finally, the day
comes and you hold a copy of your book in your hands. This should make it real.
But still,
tomorrow, you have to punch in and so the vodka must wait because after you
punch out for the day, you have to get on your laptop and blog and then check
for reviews and then tweet something.
Did I mention this
yet?
You’re shy.
You do not like to
tweet. You do not like to blog. You do not like to poke people. You do not like some of the reviews you get
back. Some are good, yes. But some, not so much.
But you have a
choice. Here’s option one. Don’t do it.
Don’t do it and no one will ever know about your book and it won’t sell
and then you’ll be a writer but not one with champagne and caviar, and most
important, not one with readers.
Therefore, choose
option two.
Choke it down, suck
it up, take what you can use from the crap reviews and spin them into tweets
and poke people about the really good ones and then make up silly responses for
interviews and update your website and hope people will be enticed to read your
book.
That’s when you
decide on something else. This big blur,
all this typing and mailing and social connecting, the payoff will be,
literally, the payoff. That first
royalty check. That’s when it’s all
going to be time to sit down, finally, take a breath, and drink that vodka.
Meantime, you’ve
got a new idea. A better idea than the
one for your first book. It’s got a
strong hook. So here’s the plan:
Sit down and start
writing. Again.
Punch the clock,
come home, plug in the laptop, keep typing as long as you can, send out a
tweet, or on a good day a blog post, and then get up in the morning and do it
all again.
Days, weeks, months
go by. Finally, it arrives. The royalty check from your first masterwork
has arrived. Tear open the envelope,
look inside. Then look again.
Swallow hard. Blink
rapidly.
The total on this
first royalty check? It’s not enough to
cover a single shot from your supposed celebratory bottle.
So here’s what you
do. Put ass in chair and keep on
writing. Send a tweet, post new chapters
to be critiqued.
Quietly, forlorn,
your celebratory bottle of vodka sighs.
You know what
happens next.
That’s right.
The bullseye, the
concentric circles going out, farther and farther. More mailings, more
rejections, all while punching in every day.
Douche in critique nails you for inconsistencies in the plot but he’s
wrong, he’d misread a section. You could
scream. But you don’t. Just sigh to yourself, just like your lonesome
vodka bottle and then thank him for his time.
Then find a publisher and prove the douche wrong and then tweet about it
and your new cover and start blogging about the new book after you update your
website.
This time, when the
royalty check comes, it stings less but somehow disappoints more.
You know what
happens next. Except this time, there’s
a change. New idea, typing, that stays the same. Bullseye, circles out, that’s all the
same. What stops is punching in every
day. Economy’s bad and you are no longer
required to punch in. Ever. Good thing
you’ve got those fat royalty checks that’ll be rolling in any day now.
You are not
thinking that sarcastically, by the way.
You see this as an opportunity.
Just keep typing. Just keep
tweeting. Keep mailing. Keep critiquing.
And, repeat.
Repeat for a total
of ten years. Seven books.
Still, no readers.
Sometimes, people
ask, what do you do? And you say, shyly,
that you write.
There are three
responses you routinely get.
Response one: I could be a writer, too! I know I could. Just think to yourself, then put your ass in
the chair and do it, bitch. But say to
them, I know you could, so you should.
Encourage, kindly. Nod as they go
on.
Response two: Have I got a story for you! Just nod and listen to their wild story that
is nothing like The Hangover even though they think it’s box office
gold.
Response three: Have you
written anything I’ve heard of. Reply
sheepishly but honestly – probably not.
They’ll lose interest immediately and you’ll question whether or not you
really are a writer.
That’s when it
happens.
The whole country,
suddenly, it’s reading a book. Not one
of your books. Oh no. But a book like yours. The genre is the same. The content is similar.
Critique douche,
again with the snark, he smirks with the news and slyly insinuates that yours
is actually better.
You could punch
him. You could scream.
But you don’t.
Instead, you chose
another option.
Go home, and
finally, finally, take that break, enjoy the moment and crack open that bottle
of vodka.
Pour the shot,
drink it down, and soak it in. Enjoy it.
Because you now
realize that the champagne won’t ever come.
Maybe, sadly, the readers won’t either.
The vodka is slightly bitter. Not
because you’ve waited so long to drink it. It’s just a bottle, it doesn’t have
complex emotions like that. It just
tastes slightly bitter.
It’s bitter because
you know critique douche is right. Even
if he takes deranged glee in it, you take some satisfaction. Yours is better than the bestseller. You worked just as hard. It’s just not happening for you. You don’t care about the lack of champagne.
But you do miss the readers.
All these words,
all these ideas, all these stories, all these books you’ve written. It’s like you’re underwater and screaming but
no one can hear you. Like you’re
screaming for your life.
Again, with the
writer’s hyperbole there.
Seriously, get a
grip. This is not your life at stake.
But it is supposed
to be your living.
Now, these are your
options.
You could just
stop. Stop now. It’s not going to happen. No matter how much you type or blog or tweet
or query. Finish this bottle of vodka
that’s tasting smoother by the sip and then go to bed and get up and find
somewhere new to punch in and make a decent wage again.
That is exactly
what you could do. Should do. What a normal person would do.
But you do not.
You chose the
second option.
You put ass in
chair and start to type.
Because you are a
writer.
But you do finish
that bottle of vodka first.
_______________________________
Please visit her online at www.susandiplacido.com or www.susandiplacido.blogspot.com.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/susan.diplacido
Become her friend her on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/susandiplacido
______________________
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