Friday Feedback: A Treat with a Twist: My Editor's Take on Your First Moments

The day our first baby together arrived!
We have a second baby coming March 2018!!! 

You guys are uber, ridiculously lucky today, because I wrangled my shiny & fabulous editor at St. Martin's Press & Wednesday Books, Vicki Lame, into guest hosting Friday Feedback today.

Nope, I'm not kidding!

I asked her if she'd answer these three simple questions:

1. What grabs you in the beginning of a manuscript?

2. What keeps you reading?

3. And, um, would you give my nine zillion campers feedback on their beginnings?

(Okay, I may have slipped that last one in when she wasn't fully listening. . . but she agreed!!! And she's here to do just that!)

Because she's busy and spends her life reading submissions, I do want to make it as simple and easy for her to be here  -- after all, Friday Feedback can be a bit of a frenzy, albeit the best kind of wonderful frenzy.

So I'm simplifying the rules, and twisting them a bit today:

• Please only submit the opening 3 - 5 paragraphs of your manuscript, or story. If you submit more, I have told her to only focus on the first 3 - 5;

• Rather than our usual format of "what works, what doesn't, and would you keep reading?", Vicki will simply share with you what pops out at her -- her quick first impression: essentially what she sees in your writing, or feels as she is reading.  

• I will only likely chime in on the excerpts she cannot get to if she cannot get to them all, because who wants to hear from me when you have her?!

• FYI, she will be limited in how much she is able to respond to TODAY, but will be reading excerpts through the weekend. Having said that, please don't post new excerpts past Friday night. She will do her best to get to at least the first 50 excerpts between today and Sunday.

Pretty freaking amazing, right?

Right. :)

So, without further ado, here's Vicki with some absolute gems about what she is looking for when she opens a manuscript and begins to read that first chapter:

What I want to see in a first chapter:

-          A strong depiction of a main character. I want to know exactly who that character or what we might find out later by even the smallest of details… the crooked way his tie hangs, or the brief hesitation when she answers a call from someone. Your characters should be three-dimensional right from the beginning.

-          A propulsive first scene not bogged down by too much exposition/internal dialogue. Show us who your character is and what world we are in, don’t tell me. Let me learn about it and make connections for myself.

-          Tight writing. Don’t be flowery for the sake of being flowery. And don’t tell me every little action the character makes. I don’t need to know “she lifted her hand to the cabinet to open the door to take out the mug for her tea.” I just need to know she took out a mug.

-          No tricks. Those first few paragraphs tell a reader exactly what they are getting into. So, unless it is pivotal to the plot, I don’t want to see any tricks. If your manuscript is a young adult romance, it shouldn’t read like a thriller.

-          A willingness to be bold, to be different. There are a ton of books out there, more than ever before, don’t be afraid to write a book that will stand out from the pack. Don’t write something because you think it’s popular, write the story that only you can tell.

So, there you have it. No excerpt from me today. Just you, the comment box, and a real opportunity to be brave.

xox gae & Vicki

---Vicki Lame is an editor at St. Martin’s Press and Wednesday Books. Titles include, Geek Girl Rising: Inside the Sisterhood Shaking Up Tech by Heather Cabot and Samantha Walravens, The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence by Alyssa Palombo, and The Memory of Things by award-winning author Gae Polisner. She is lucky to be able to work across age groups and genres, acquiring upmarket women’s fiction and historical fiction as well as select non-fiction and a variety of young adult titles. She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her highly Instagrammable cat, Troy.

Friday Feedback: Unruly & Ten Rules

Boo hiss: All my dread in the world couldn't keep it away: the unofficial last weekend of summer is here.

And, next Wednesday, my kids go back to school.

The days are getting shorter, the morning's, colder, and all my wishing and hoping won't keep fall at bay.

The only good part is that I have a lot of fun book stuff coming up: my first Canadian Book Club, a school visit in PA, a Kids Read stint at the esteemed Center for Fiction in NYC, and an evening at Pen Parentis, to name a few.

Also, my "Frankie" revisions are due to my editor, after a big thumbs up from my agent, so I'm hopeful they'll go over well. If only the publication date weren't so very faaaaaar away.

As for my Frankie revisions, I'm feeling a bit lovey dovey with my hubby these days* (that's him ranking a blog appearance up there) because, unbeknowst to me, he took it upon himself to read the revised draft. Now, let's just say he's not always my best, most attentive reader. *coughs* And let's just say that, if he doesn't love something, he's not particularly great at hiding that fact. *weeps a little*

And let's just say he hasn't stopped gushing about this book!

Seriously, that's like getting rave reviews from Kirkus. Plus, he's kinda looking at me all starry-eyed. ;)

Anyway, I have some fun guest authors and writing and revision tips coming up in the next several weeks, but this week, and especially for those readers who are regulars, I do want to parade out my very short bible of writing for you once again... Got 10 Rules?

Come on, Elmore makes it easy:

Yeah, okay, maybe those last two rules are tricky. . .  ;)

Anyway, it is Friday Feedback. . . so, without further ado, you know my rules. Here's another bit from my Work In Progress I posted from last week -- an upper YA called In Sight of Stars. The MC is a 17-year-old boy named Klee (pronounced Clay). He's in a bit of a (very) bad way:

At 5:15 pm, I walk out to the nurses’ station to call Mom, which is bad timing to begin with, because the smell of puked-up chicken noodle soup or some other shit wafts from the cafeteria down the halls. I’ve avoided a meal there since Monday, but I’m not sure how much longer they’ll let me.

            The nurse at the desk’s name is Shelly. She’s the blond one who sometimes brings me my meds.

            “I need to call my mom,” I say. She nods and moves away, to give me some privacy, I think.

It still feels weird to dial our home number, like it’s somebody else’s, not ours. The sound of the ringing makes my heart race. I don’t know whether I want her to answer, or not. Not means she’s out gallivanting.

Then again, what does it matter?

Another ring, a third, then voicemail.

“You’ve reached Klee and Marielle, please leave a message. We’ll get back to you as soon as we’re able.”

Nice. Creative. Original. The machine beeps in my ear, gratefully cutting off my thoughts.  

“Hey, Mom, it’s me. I’m doing better. So, yeah, when you get this, you can call. Or, I guess you don’t have to call, you can just come by tomorrow if you want to. Oh yeah, if you do, could you bring me some clean clothes and, I guess maybe my school books, since I really don’t know how long I’m in for. They’re in my backpack, well, you know. Okay, thanks. See you then.”

I hang up. My stomach roils. I can’t even wrap my head around school.

Then again, I can’t wrap my head around having to see my mother either.
***

Looking forward to reading you!
- gae

*I'm almost always feeling lovey dovey with my hubby.

Friday Feedback: Take Your Advice and . . . Think About It?

So, a friend of mine -- a writer with several traditionally-published books under his belt -- asked if I would take a look at a YA manuscript of his (his first in the genre).

The manuscript has been getting great "plot" feedback from agents and editors alike, but they are, thereafter, rejecting it -- mostly on claimed issues with the story's "voice."

As such, he specifically asked me not to worry about little problems with story or structure or dialogue, but to just see if I could figure out what is wrong (if anything) with the voice.

So, here's the thing: I'm reading, knowing his credentials far exceed mine, and I'm seeing problems everywhere in the first 30 pages -- concrete problems that have nothing to do with voice (though might amount to why voice isn't working for them). And, so, I'm questioning myself.

"Who am I, compared to this more successful writer, compared to editors and agents alike, to think I might actually "see" more concrete things wrong with this manuscript?"

Worse, when I know that writing advice is subjective.

I like what I like, and I don't like what I don't like, and as objective as I try to be, that truth is going to seep in to any critique I offer.

Even professional reviewers can't avoid this truth, or how can one explain the same book getting a stellar Kirkus review, while the School Library Journal or VOYA review is, say, less so? (*coughs*). Doesn't it mean that those readings are subjective?

So, here's the million dollar question: when seeking feedback, Who do you believe?

What advice do you take?

IMHO, there are really no definitive answers, but I do have a rule of thumb. All well-intended, constructive criticism is, of course, food for thought. Sometimes, no more than that.

But, if two or more people I admire (writing or reading-wise) take issue with something in my manuscript (or, in the case of my agent or editor, it only needs to be that one person), I deem it more than food for thought. I deem it something that needs my focus and consideration.

I may not agree with how or why they've taken issue -- or their potential suggestion, if any, for how to fix it -- but I do believe that it means as the writer, I may not have done my job communicating what I was hoping to, as well as I thought I had.

I need to go back with fresh eyes and look at those parts again.


So, for example: In my current manuscript, one of the "bits" that plays out throughout the story happens to be a favorite part of several of my BETA readers. I got repeated positive feedback about those parts. My former agent loved them too.

So, imagine my surprise when my current (and forever) agent commented that he found those parts occasionally to be a bit "twee."

Twee?!

Blech.

My first thought was to ignore him -- I mean, it's like five against one, right?!

But as I thought more about it, and held sight of my rule -- I thought, maybe I just haven't done those parts quite as well as I thought I had. Maybe my BETA readers are forgiving, and my agent is rightfully not.

So, now, on revision, I will look again with fresh eyes and an open zen-like ( ;)) mind.

And, the best I can do for my friend, is offer up what I "see," how I feel when I read, and know he will take it for whatever it's worth.

But, here's the bottom line. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. WRITING IS SUBJECTIVE. Reading is too. Critiquing is too.

For as many readers (agents, editors, reviewers) as like your book, there will always be detractors, someone who doesn't. Some readers will connect with your book, and some just won't. It's personal, but it isn't. So, hold on to that. In the end it's your story. Your voice.

Only you can decide.

So, here we go, peeps. Just you and me and Friday Feedback. You know the RULES. Here's a bit from the manuscript I'm working on now. Just a rough bit from the early middle. The main character is a 17-yr old boy, and a very good artist.

"So, then. . .” She lifts my portfolio and rests it on the table. “I didn’t open it, but I really wanted to.” She laughs, apologetically. “It’s just that I hear that you’re good.”

I shift on the couch and press against the headache that’s forming at the bridge of my nose.

“Ah, I see you’re not offering to help with my curiosity. Fair enough.” She winks to let me know she’s just playing, and slides the portfolio off to the side. There’s something real about it – her – how she’s honest, rather than therapist-like, which makes me feel badly that I’m not in the mood. She pulls her clipboard back onto her lap. “No worries, really, I’ll live. I promise. But, maybe Monday you’ll share?”  She flips the sheet over and writes a note on it. The portfolio sits there, its handle dangling over the table’s edge.

My eyes flash to the small piece of masking tape wrapped around its handle, the words Kee ha Wo scrawled in Sarah’s handwriting. My stomach twists. I’d forgotten about that piece of tape. It’s mostly brown smudge now, my grip erasing letters over time.

Kee ha Wo. It reads like some cryptic Chinese phrase. But I know what it said. I remember.

           It was a double entendre, the day of the MOMA, on the train. She had whispered it in my ear, and the next week, I found it taped there on the handle like that. She had burst out laughing when I found it, loud enough that Mrs. Tarantoli gave us a look from her desk.

Kee ha Woo. I remember every single word Sarah said.

- gae

p.s. if you missed Kate's Teachers Write! Quick Write yesterday, and you're a participant, you shouldn't have. You can find it, and chime in your letter here: http://www.katemessner.com/teachers-write-89-thursday-quick-write/

p.s.s. No sad goodbyes here from me to my Teachers Write! campers (I refuse!!). Friday Feedback isn't going anywhere just because summer may end. Come back and play any Friday, and your students are welcome too. xox

The Lure of Body Parts and Kissing my New Baby Goodbye

I've been in a sparkly, brightly-colored nail-polish phase (perhaps one I should title my Regression Period?), which, given my new penchant for open-water swimming, I suddenly realize could have some hazardous results.

Because while most of me is covered while I swim (wetsuit, bathing cap, neoprene booties), my short, shell-shaped nails flash beneath me in the murky water like a perfect set of ten sparkly lures.

So, now, I have visions of lifting my hands on each stroke with a series of sand eels and other creatures latched to the tips of my fingers.

In other news, I turned my new baby, my young adult manuscript which bears the working title Frankie Sky, into my agent today, which will receive a cover letter from her and travel on to my editor by tomorrow. Pursuant to my contract with FSG, they have the first option on the book. The few readers who have read the early version of it have given it a pretty hearty thumbs up. I look forward to seeing its journey. At least if it's a successful one. :)

Here's a brief excerpt from Chapter 4 of Frankie Sky.

* * *

I blink my eyes and look over at Simon’s cement frog again. The forget-me-nots are in full bloom. In a few weeks they’ll get this weird rot and turn black and we’ll quickly cut them back to the ground. But it’s okay, because already the bleeding hearts will be open, draping their white and pink teardrops over him. Those will last most of the summer. In fall, Mom will cut those back and encircle the frog in mums, and in winter everything will be dead, so instead, she’ll place a series of brightly-colored glass gazing balls around him. Because, in addition to all things drowning, Mom is excellent with her grief-appropriate gardening.

* * *
Now, off to paint my nails another shiny color. Maybe irridescent purple. :)

Books are like babies...

You write one (er, that's the short version...) and then you marvel at it, thinking it is the most magnificent baby you have ever seen. You coo at it. You show it off to your friends. If you're lucky, you get a publishing deal on it and send it out into the world (ok, my analogy is getting stretched a bit here, go with me).

Then, you write a second book. You think it will never be as beautiful, or funny or smart as your last book, that you can never love another manuscript as much as you loved that first one. But, out it comes and suddenly you realize that you do, you love it every bit as much. You think it's brilliant and funny, and you coo at it and tickle its feet (?). You want to send it out in the world to be loved and adored, as that first one was. 

My second (which is really my third) YA manuscript is about to take its first steps into the world: it goes to my agent this weekend, and then, hopefully, if she doesn't hate it (don't hate my second kid, don't hate my second kid...) off to my editor, as my "option" book (oh, dear G*d, pretty please, don't hate my second kid!).

So, without further ado, take a bubble gum cigar and wash your hands and take a peek (geez, don't cough on it like that!). Here's the first page of my new baby. His name is Frankie Sky (please don't hate my kid). I mean, just look at those cheeks, those fingers, those eyes! ;)



FRANKIE SKY

A Novel, by Gae H. Polisner

"It's so silly. All you do is get the heck out of your body when you die. My gosh, everybody's done it thousands of times. Just because they don't remember, it doesn't mean they haven't done it." - J D Salinger

  Chapter One


"It is not more surprising to be born twice than once." - Voltaire


The first time I see Frankie Schyler, he’s diving into the deep end of the Lawrenceville Country Club pool.

All around the pool, clear as day, are big white signs with black letters that say, “NO DIVING,” but, then, Frankie can’t know about those.

I’m not a fan of the water myself for good reason, and, thus, not prone to dive in after him. In fact, I’m not at the pool that day to swim. I’m tailing Mrs. Merrill from across the street.

Mrs. Merrill is beautiful, but in a hard way like Angelina Jolie, not in a soft, fragile way like Kate Winslet, or like my mother.

I’m not usually this nosy, but I’m tailing Mrs. Merrill for a reason. Which, unfortunately, has to do with my father.

The whole thing started totally by accident the week before. I’d been home early for lunch in between final exams – my last ones of 9th grade, ever – and was standing at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of orange juice. Mom was at her “job” at The Foundation, also known as the place that sucks the lifeblood from her. Well, at least whatever lifeblood she has left. Dad was at work, too, or so I assumed, at his job selling houses, which he’d finally started making money at again. Which put him in a better mood, which was good, because our house was bleak enough as it was.

                                                  *    *   *   *   *