Posts
Elizabeth Zelvin & Sharon Wildwind
What have you learned about writing since your first book was published?
Sharon: Old habits die hard.
The word “the” should not make up 33% of an entire chapter.
Remove every qualifier (just, almost, nearly, possibly, etc) as a matter of course. Occasionally, you may replace one, but only one, and that’s usually in dialog because it reflects how a character speaks.
There are words for which I lack a gene to spell correctly, ever, under any circumstances.
There’s not enough time or space in my life for people who are rude or stupid when they critique.
If more than one person says something is clunky or doesn’t read right, fix that part, no matter how much you adore it the way it is.
One of the great joys of writing it to pick up a terrific book, say to myself, “I’ve read this before,” but know that can’t be true because it’s just been published, and then realize that I read it in manuscript form. To know I was there at the beginning, before the story went public, is a gift.
Liz: With each book, I internalize more of what I’ve heard about writing fiction since I started talking with—and listening to—other mystery writers. The kind of editing I learned at my mother’s knee is essential to a clean manuscript that reads smoothly. But fiction writing—characterization, plotting, pace, “showing, not telling,” dialogue, backstory, point of view—is a whole different skill set. Crafting a mystery novel is different from crafting a short story. I hardly ever read short stories, and certainly never dreamed I’d write them, until a couple of years ago. It’s not a matter of deliberately following rules to construct these elements of the mystery. I think the information about what’s needed gets assimilated gradually and then bubbles up—either in a new intuitive ability, say, to stick to a point of view or pace an action scene—or in a new ability to see what’s wrong and fix it when you read it over.
What aspect of your craft as a writer are you most proud of?
Sharon: That little click I get in my brain when I know that a heart-breaking scene is right. What makes it even sweeter is when someone later says, “I cried when I read that scene.”
Liz: In my mystery series, I’m very proud of my protagonist Bruce’s voice. I didn’t know if I could create a male character in the first person and make him real, smart, funny, and vulnerable—and nothing like me. To me, going beyond the autobiographical is the hallmark of professionalism in a fiction writer. I’m thrilled that reader feedback indicates I’ve pulled it off.
What’s the hardest part of writing for you?
Liz: The first draft of a novel is a nightmare. I’m telling myself the story, creating a world or community and characters to populate it, and I’m never sure I’ll make it through to the end until I’ve done it. And then I have dreadful doubts about whether I can do it again. It’s a little comforting that I’ve heard highly successful and prolific writers say the same is true for them. Revision is a breeze in comparison—and at that point, I have trusted critiquers to share the burden.
Sharon: It’s like this quote from the mystery writer, Claudia McCants: “What gets in my way when I'm writing? I think the question really is, What doesn't?” On any given day, anything, even things I’ve previously done easily, can be the worst chore in the world. Writing is a matter of keeping your courage up enough to write every day, even when you are convinced that you should have taken up any other occupation.
Showing posts with label critique. Show all posts
Showing posts with label critique. Show all posts
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
“The End” Is Just the Beginning, Part III of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft
Sharon Wildwind & Elizabeth Zelvin
What has been your experience with critique groups and critique partners?
Sharon: I could write a book on this. Horrible. Really bad. Great. Life-altering wonderful.
The horrible ones are the people who rewrite my story instead of telling me their reactions to it, or the ones who expect pages and pages of critique from everyone in the critique group, but never get around to doing a critique themselves. “I didn’t have time to read anyone’s work, so I made cookies instead.” The really bad are the ones with fixed rules and a condescending attitude. “Really now, dear, anyone past the fourth grade knows that you must use a comma to set off an introductory participle or infinitive phrase unless it immediately preceded, and forms part of, the verb.” Or they focus on some small detail, like the difference between American and Canadian spelling, but never make a single comment about the story itself.
The great ones—where the majority of people I’ve dealt with fall—know that critique is just one step in the process and that, as they say in the car commercials, your mileage might differ. They give a no-holes-barred view of how the material affected them as a reader, and why it affected them that way. They make suggestions and ask questions rather than giving fixed rules. “Between you and me, Chapter 2 could be better. Laurel playing with her hair is driving me to distraction. I wanted to slap her hand and tell her to pay attention to what Jonas was saying. In fact, what would happen if Jonas did slap her hand?”
The life-altering wonderful critique partnership—we need so many more of these—is like that ying-yang symbol. Each partner is ahead of the game in some areas and needs help in the areas where her partner is ahead of the game. Each partner treats the other with respect and humor. I read a wonderful line in a parenting book, “I love you just the way you are, and I love you too much to let you stay that way.”
Liz: I had one successful critique group experience back in the 1970s, when I first wrote poetry. It was a leaderless group of fine poets who were very good at constructive criticism. None of us had a book at that time, but I eventually published two books of poetry with a good small press, and one of the group is now a major poet whose name has become a household word.
I wanted very much to find a mystery critique group, but the online group I joined included an elderly lady who found my subject matter (recovery from alcoholism) “sordid,” so I didn’t last long there. I will add that one of my cherished critique partners and mystery-writer friends is someone I met in that group. As I have come to know many, many fellow mystery writers through networking in MWA and Sisters in Crime, online, and at conferences, I have found a few writers like Sharon whose opinion I respect enormously and who are kind enough to take the time to read and comment on in-progress versions of my novels.
Coming on Thursday July 16: Part IV, on the published writer’s craft
What has been your experience with critique groups and critique partners?
Sharon: I could write a book on this. Horrible. Really bad. Great. Life-altering wonderful.
The horrible ones are the people who rewrite my story instead of telling me their reactions to it, or the ones who expect pages and pages of critique from everyone in the critique group, but never get around to doing a critique themselves. “I didn’t have time to read anyone’s work, so I made cookies instead.” The really bad are the ones with fixed rules and a condescending attitude. “Really now, dear, anyone past the fourth grade knows that you must use a comma to set off an introductory participle or infinitive phrase unless it immediately preceded, and forms part of, the verb.” Or they focus on some small detail, like the difference between American and Canadian spelling, but never make a single comment about the story itself.
The great ones—where the majority of people I’ve dealt with fall—know that critique is just one step in the process and that, as they say in the car commercials, your mileage might differ. They give a no-holes-barred view of how the material affected them as a reader, and why it affected them that way. They make suggestions and ask questions rather than giving fixed rules. “Between you and me, Chapter 2 could be better. Laurel playing with her hair is driving me to distraction. I wanted to slap her hand and tell her to pay attention to what Jonas was saying. In fact, what would happen if Jonas did slap her hand?”
The life-altering wonderful critique partnership—we need so many more of these—is like that ying-yang symbol. Each partner is ahead of the game in some areas and needs help in the areas where her partner is ahead of the game. Each partner treats the other with respect and humor. I read a wonderful line in a parenting book, “I love you just the way you are, and I love you too much to let you stay that way.”
Liz: I had one successful critique group experience back in the 1970s, when I first wrote poetry. It was a leaderless group of fine poets who were very good at constructive criticism. None of us had a book at that time, but I eventually published two books of poetry with a good small press, and one of the group is now a major poet whose name has become a household word.
I wanted very much to find a mystery critique group, but the online group I joined included an elderly lady who found my subject matter (recovery from alcoholism) “sordid,” so I didn’t last long there. I will add that one of my cherished critique partners and mystery-writer friends is someone I met in that group. As I have come to know many, many fellow mystery writers through networking in MWA and Sisters in Crime, online, and at conferences, I have found a few writers like Sharon whose opinion I respect enormously and who are kind enough to take the time to read and comment on in-progress versions of my novels.
Coming on Thursday July 16: Part IV, on the published writer’s craft
Thursday, July 9, 2009
“The End” Is Just the Beginning, Part II of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft
Elizabeth Zelvin & Sharon Wildwind
How important are the mechanics of writing: spelling, grammar, syntax?
Sharon: Absolutely, one-hundred percent, ground-zero critical. Poor word-and-sentence-crafting skills are like saying that a concert musician can ignore finger exercises, or a painter doesn’t have to know the differences between acrylics and watercolors. Writers profit by losing the myth that an editor will fix all of that tawdry stuff once the publisher buys a manuscript.
Of the three, spelling without reference and without error is being replaced by an ability to use a spellchecker, but that’s like needing basic arithmetic skills to use a calculator. I may not remember that 6 x 7 = 42, but I need to know that the answer to 6 x 7 falls somewhere between 40 and 50, so that when my calculator misfires and tells me that the answer is 167, my brain goes, “Wait a minute.” It’s the same with spelling. If I have a choice between two closely-spelled words, I have to know which one to choose.
Unfortunately, there aren’t yet any grammar and syntax programs that can be as bang-on as spell checkers. With lots of writers, me included, the banging that goes on is me hitting my head in frustration when the computer, for the 137th time, corrects a grammar usage that I’ve intentionally chosen.
Liz: I was brought up to believe that correct spelling was not optional. I know today that spelling is not necessarily proof of intelligence—or vice versa—but I didn’t learn that from my family. We were all demon Scrabble players. I can still remember my feeling of triumph at the age of nine when I insisted—correctly—that “exhilarating” was spelled with an “a” in the middle, while my mother said it was an “i” and my father voted for “e.” To this day I don’t know if they were just giving me an easy win. My mother always said “It is I” and put “whom” in all the right places. I know where it should be, but I don’t do it in casual conversation. And I don’t mind ending a sentence with a preposition.
Do you have any particular bees in your bonnet about the use of language?
Liz: My pet peeve is the split infinitive. The Star Trek slogan—“to boldly go”—drives me nuts. So does “to better understand.” I don’t know why people think that it’s okay to split the infinitive when the word in the middle is “better.” You can write or speak a perfectly smooth sentence in which you say that you want “to understand [something] better.” Thinking “to better understand” is a better locution is like thinking it’s more aristocratic to stick out your pinky when you hold a teacup—something I’ve read enough Golden Age English novels to know no true aristocrat would do.
Sharon: Carelessness, such as split infinitives. Damn it, Jim, it’s either “to go boldly” or “boldly, to go.”
“Point in time.” The action has either reached a point (a place) or a time (a when), but not both at the same time.
Business jargon. “Uniquely recapitualize leveraged web-readiness vis-a-vis out-of-the-box information,” works fine in a Dilbert cartoon, but has no place in the real world. As an aside, if you run a Macintosh system that uses widgets, download Corporate Ipsum. You can have tons of fun with the business jargon it generates.
My biggest gripe is format.
There, I feel a lot better.
Coming on Tuesday July 14: Part III, on critique groups
How important are the mechanics of writing: spelling, grammar, syntax?
Sharon: Absolutely, one-hundred percent, ground-zero critical. Poor word-and-sentence-crafting skills are like saying that a concert musician can ignore finger exercises, or a painter doesn’t have to know the differences between acrylics and watercolors. Writers profit by losing the myth that an editor will fix all of that tawdry stuff once the publisher buys a manuscript.
Of the three, spelling without reference and without error is being replaced by an ability to use a spellchecker, but that’s like needing basic arithmetic skills to use a calculator. I may not remember that 6 x 7 = 42, but I need to know that the answer to 6 x 7 falls somewhere between 40 and 50, so that when my calculator misfires and tells me that the answer is 167, my brain goes, “Wait a minute.” It’s the same with spelling. If I have a choice between two closely-spelled words, I have to know which one to choose.
Unfortunately, there aren’t yet any grammar and syntax programs that can be as bang-on as spell checkers. With lots of writers, me included, the banging that goes on is me hitting my head in frustration when the computer, for the 137th time, corrects a grammar usage that I’ve intentionally chosen.
Liz: I was brought up to believe that correct spelling was not optional. I know today that spelling is not necessarily proof of intelligence—or vice versa—but I didn’t learn that from my family. We were all demon Scrabble players. I can still remember my feeling of triumph at the age of nine when I insisted—correctly—that “exhilarating” was spelled with an “a” in the middle, while my mother said it was an “i” and my father voted for “e.” To this day I don’t know if they were just giving me an easy win. My mother always said “It is I” and put “whom” in all the right places. I know where it should be, but I don’t do it in casual conversation. And I don’t mind ending a sentence with a preposition.
Do you have any particular bees in your bonnet about the use of language?
Liz: My pet peeve is the split infinitive. The Star Trek slogan—“to boldly go”—drives me nuts. So does “to better understand.” I don’t know why people think that it’s okay to split the infinitive when the word in the middle is “better.” You can write or speak a perfectly smooth sentence in which you say that you want “to understand [something] better.” Thinking “to better understand” is a better locution is like thinking it’s more aristocratic to stick out your pinky when you hold a teacup—something I’ve read enough Golden Age English novels to know no true aristocrat would do.
Sharon: Carelessness, such as split infinitives. Damn it, Jim, it’s either “to go boldly” or “boldly, to go.”
“Point in time.” The action has either reached a point (a place) or a time (a when), but not both at the same time.
Business jargon. “Uniquely recapitualize leveraged web-readiness vis-a-vis out-of-the-box information,” works fine in a Dilbert cartoon, but has no place in the real world. As an aside, if you run a Macintosh system that uses widgets, download Corporate Ipsum. You can have tons of fun with the business jargon it generates.
My biggest gripe is format.
There, I feel a lot better.
Coming on Tuesday July 14: Part III, on critique groups
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
"The End" Is Just the Beginning, Part I of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft
Sharon Wildwind & Elizabeth Zelvin
Where, when, and how did you first learn about editing?
Liz: I literally learned to edit at my mother’s knee. She graduated from law school in 1924, when it was hard for women lawyers to get a job, and eventually made a niche for herself as a legal writer and editor at a major publisher. She left to raise a family, but went back to work as a home-based freelancer when I was 10. In those days, the publisher would pay extra for the author to create her own index. She would type each index item on, yep, an index card, a white 3x5, and I would alphabetize them for her, laying them out on the dining room table like a deck of cards for solitaire. My mother did a contributed book, an encyclopedia of real estate appraisal (a topic on which she knew nothing when she started), that became a long-term bestseller, paying royalties for decades. She left nothing to chance with the real estate experts who were her contributing authors. She sent each of them a well-planned outline, hounded them to stick to it and turn in their manuscripts on time, and in many cases then rewrote each chapter from scratch.
Sharon: I had one technical writing course back in dim mists of university, and I did business writing for a number of years. That gave me a good grounding in the nuts and bolts. My fiction editing was strictly on-the-job training, exchanging on-line critiques with a number of people. Of course, I have the requisite Strunk and White on my reference shelf, along with both of Karen Elizabeth Gordon’s books—The Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed and The Transitive Vampire: A Handbook of Grammar for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed—and most recently a second-hand copy of Eats Shoots and Leaves.
At what point do you invite critique on a manuscript?
Sharon: As soon as I get the itch to share. I send out my first chapter, to a select group, as soon as possible. My accompanying questions are “Did the story grab you? If so, on what page? Why or why not? Where do you hope the story is heading?
My husband reads every word of every draft as soon as it comes out of the printer. We’ve agreed that he’ll make general comments, like “This is a funny chapter,” or “There’s not a lot of tension here. You might want to rethink it,” unless I ask him specific questions. Poor man, by the end of the book he can’t remember what’s been included and what dropped, which I suppose is a good thing, because when the advanced reading copy arrives, he’s as surprised as anyone.
I also ask for critique when I’m about a third of the way through the first draft; when I’ve included technical information in an area outside of my personal experience; or when I’m stuck and the plot seems dead. Finally, I have a small group of dear friends and gentle people from whom I pick one to read the entire next-to-final draft before I do the final tidying.
Liz: I don’t show anybody the first draft. I don’t outline, so I’m telling myself the story, creating plot and characters as I go, and I can’t afford to feel inhibited or self-conscious. When I have the whole novel on the computer, I print it out and read it through with pen in hand. I put the first set of revisions on the computer, print it out again, and then either make more revisions or ask a trusted critique partner to take a look.
The only time I broke the full-first-draft rule was recently, when I sent Sharon (my gold standard for critique!) 60 pages of a manuscript I didn’t think was working. She didn’t think it was necessarily hopeless, and she had some excellent suggestions. But she asked a great question: “If your publisher went bankrupt tomorrow, would you still want to write this story?” The answer was “No,” so I put it aside and started a different story.
On Thursday July 9: Part II, on spelling, grammar, and the use of language
Where, when, and how did you first learn about editing?
Liz: I literally learned to edit at my mother’s knee. She graduated from law school in 1924, when it was hard for women lawyers to get a job, and eventually made a niche for herself as a legal writer and editor at a major publisher. She left to raise a family, but went back to work as a home-based freelancer when I was 10. In those days, the publisher would pay extra for the author to create her own index. She would type each index item on, yep, an index card, a white 3x5, and I would alphabetize them for her, laying them out on the dining room table like a deck of cards for solitaire. My mother did a contributed book, an encyclopedia of real estate appraisal (a topic on which she knew nothing when she started), that became a long-term bestseller, paying royalties for decades. She left nothing to chance with the real estate experts who were her contributing authors. She sent each of them a well-planned outline, hounded them to stick to it and turn in their manuscripts on time, and in many cases then rewrote each chapter from scratch.
Sharon: I had one technical writing course back in dim mists of university, and I did business writing for a number of years. That gave me a good grounding in the nuts and bolts. My fiction editing was strictly on-the-job training, exchanging on-line critiques with a number of people. Of course, I have the requisite Strunk and White on my reference shelf, along with both of Karen Elizabeth Gordon’s books—The Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed and The Transitive Vampire: A Handbook of Grammar for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed—and most recently a second-hand copy of Eats Shoots and Leaves.
At what point do you invite critique on a manuscript?
Sharon: As soon as I get the itch to share. I send out my first chapter, to a select group, as soon as possible. My accompanying questions are “Did the story grab you? If so, on what page? Why or why not? Where do you hope the story is heading?
My husband reads every word of every draft as soon as it comes out of the printer. We’ve agreed that he’ll make general comments, like “This is a funny chapter,” or “There’s not a lot of tension here. You might want to rethink it,” unless I ask him specific questions. Poor man, by the end of the book he can’t remember what’s been included and what dropped, which I suppose is a good thing, because when the advanced reading copy arrives, he’s as surprised as anyone.
I also ask for critique when I’m about a third of the way through the first draft; when I’ve included technical information in an area outside of my personal experience; or when I’m stuck and the plot seems dead. Finally, I have a small group of dear friends and gentle people from whom I pick one to read the entire next-to-final draft before I do the final tidying.
Liz: I don’t show anybody the first draft. I don’t outline, so I’m telling myself the story, creating plot and characters as I go, and I can’t afford to feel inhibited or self-conscious. When I have the whole novel on the computer, I print it out and read it through with pen in hand. I put the first set of revisions on the computer, print it out again, and then either make more revisions or ask a trusted critique partner to take a look.
The only time I broke the full-first-draft rule was recently, when I sent Sharon (my gold standard for critique!) 60 pages of a manuscript I didn’t think was working. She didn’t think it was necessarily hopeless, and she had some excellent suggestions. But she asked a great question: “If your publisher went bankrupt tomorrow, would you still want to write this story?” The answer was “No,” so I put it aside and started a different story.
On Thursday July 9: Part II, on spelling, grammar, and the use of language
Thursday, May 21, 2009
What Writers Need to Keep Going
Elizabeth Zelvin
Most professional writers agree that to get the first book published and and then keep a writing career in play, you need the hide of a rhinoceros. For years, I kept on my bulletin board an old Peanuts cartoon in which Snoopy is lying on top of his doghouse reading a letter: “Dear Author, This is the worst novel I have ever read. Your writing stinks.” In the last frame, Snoopy consoles himself by thinking, “It must be a form rejection letter.”
If you go to conferences and read interviews with writers, you know that very few got either their agent or their publisher on the first try. I’ve heard it said more than once that on the average, it takes eight to ten years to get the first novel published. Along with the form rejections and the occasional agent or editor who hates one’s book are the heartbreaking rave rejections: “I loved it—but not quite enough.” “You’ve got it all—fine writing, characters, plot, suspense; I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting it published elsewhere.”
Once that first book comes out, the pressure to produce at least a book a year is tremendous, especially in the mystery world, where series are the norm. And now beleaguered authors not only have to write the next book and promote the first, but also deal with bad reviews, readers who didn’t like their work, emails from experts (genuine and self appointed) saying they got the details wrong, and their own self doubt. I have heard a number of successful authors admit that the fear that this time they’ll fail to come up with a publishable story doesn’t go away, even after the seventeenth book in a series or the third major award.
One mark of the professional writer is openness to critique. It’s hard to write in isolation—and nowadays, essential for aspiring writers to connect not only with “critters” but with those who can teach professional submission behavior and open doors to the newly published. Once upon a time, Thomas Wolfe brought a messy several-hundred-page pile of manuscript to legendary editor Maxwell Perkins, who shaped it into a bestselling novel. This happened in 1929, and people are still talking about it. That’s because it doesn’t happen any more. It doesn’t take much toughness to pour it all out and count on someone else to fix it. Today’s writers have to self critique rigorously as well as being prepared to take in feedback from their critique groups and partners, assess it, and make decisions about which suggestions to accept and use. Then they have to listen to the comments of agents, editors, and copy editors before publication and the whole world once the book appears.
So writers have got to be tough. Yet they must also be sensitive, or how would they empathize with their characters? How do they strike a balance? For me, the key elements I’ve identified so far are self-awareness, detachment, and time. I need to know my craft and love at least some of what I write. Yet I need to know the weaknesses in my writing. I need to identify aspects of craft I have not yet mastered and how to go about improving. I need to remain teachable in both a practical and a spiritual sense. I need to discern the difference between critique and personal attack—most writers encounter both in the course of a career. In my particular case, I need to know that “I can’t” is part of my process—a transient fear, akin to stagefright, that crops up at the beginning of every new project, sometimes every day of writing—and push through it time after time. And I need to know that becoming a better writer is a journey, not a destination that I can reach instantaneously if the perfect agent or the long-sought first contract or even the lucky break will only beam me up.
The cover of Death Will Get You Sober, designed by David Rotstein, has been nominated for an Anthony award for best cover art. Voting will take place at Bouchercon in Indianapolis in October.
Most professional writers agree that to get the first book published and and then keep a writing career in play, you need the hide of a rhinoceros. For years, I kept on my bulletin board an old Peanuts cartoon in which Snoopy is lying on top of his doghouse reading a letter: “Dear Author, This is the worst novel I have ever read. Your writing stinks.” In the last frame, Snoopy consoles himself by thinking, “It must be a form rejection letter.”
If you go to conferences and read interviews with writers, you know that very few got either their agent or their publisher on the first try. I’ve heard it said more than once that on the average, it takes eight to ten years to get the first novel published. Along with the form rejections and the occasional agent or editor who hates one’s book are the heartbreaking rave rejections: “I loved it—but not quite enough.” “You’ve got it all—fine writing, characters, plot, suspense; I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting it published elsewhere.”
Once that first book comes out, the pressure to produce at least a book a year is tremendous, especially in the mystery world, where series are the norm. And now beleaguered authors not only have to write the next book and promote the first, but also deal with bad reviews, readers who didn’t like their work, emails from experts (genuine and self appointed) saying they got the details wrong, and their own self doubt. I have heard a number of successful authors admit that the fear that this time they’ll fail to come up with a publishable story doesn’t go away, even after the seventeenth book in a series or the third major award.
One mark of the professional writer is openness to critique. It’s hard to write in isolation—and nowadays, essential for aspiring writers to connect not only with “critters” but with those who can teach professional submission behavior and open doors to the newly published. Once upon a time, Thomas Wolfe brought a messy several-hundred-page pile of manuscript to legendary editor Maxwell Perkins, who shaped it into a bestselling novel. This happened in 1929, and people are still talking about it. That’s because it doesn’t happen any more. It doesn’t take much toughness to pour it all out and count on someone else to fix it. Today’s writers have to self critique rigorously as well as being prepared to take in feedback from their critique groups and partners, assess it, and make decisions about which suggestions to accept and use. Then they have to listen to the comments of agents, editors, and copy editors before publication and the whole world once the book appears.
So writers have got to be tough. Yet they must also be sensitive, or how would they empathize with their characters? How do they strike a balance? For me, the key elements I’ve identified so far are self-awareness, detachment, and time. I need to know my craft and love at least some of what I write. Yet I need to know the weaknesses in my writing. I need to identify aspects of craft I have not yet mastered and how to go about improving. I need to remain teachable in both a practical and a spiritual sense. I need to discern the difference between critique and personal attack—most writers encounter both in the course of a career. In my particular case, I need to know that “I can’t” is part of my process—a transient fear, akin to stagefright, that crops up at the beginning of every new project, sometimes every day of writing—and push through it time after time. And I need to know that becoming a better writer is a journey, not a destination that I can reach instantaneously if the perfect agent or the long-sought first contract or even the lucky break will only beam me up.
The cover of Death Will Get You Sober, designed by David Rotstein, has been nominated for an Anthony award for best cover art. Voting will take place at Bouchercon in Indianapolis in October.
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