FAQ - How Do You Get Published?

There are a lot of folks out there who've written or are writing novels and wonder how to get published. Now and then I hear from some of them. I set up a FAQ page over on my DAY OF SMALL THINGS blog/site but I think I'll go on and tackle this question here as well. (For a fuller discussion, follow the link above to the FAQ.)

Only yesterday I received an email, part of which went as follows:  

 . . . This is my first novel, and I really want this book published.  I have had my novel line edited . . . and I am in the process of some rewrites.  

Do you have any suggestions on how to get the dang thing published?  It seems like it is next to impossible to break into the literary world if you have never been published or do not have the right connections.

Is the publishing company that published your book a self publishing company?

I would appreciate any guidance that you could provide.

Okay, how to get this dang thing published.

(I'm talking about novels, here - the rules are different for non-fiction, poetry, and children's fiction.)Well, if your goal is to be published by a big, mainstream publisher, then you're going to need an agent.  And you don't 'hire' an agent -- instead you send out queries (email or snail mail) telling them about your novel and hoping that you've piqued their interest sufficiently to want to read more and, eventually, offer to represent you. The really big publishers do not accept unagented submissions. (There are smaller legitimate publishing houses that will deal directly with the author.)

Impossible to break into the literary world if you have never been published or do not have the right connections? 

I am proof that it's possible -- I had NO connections and the only publication to my credit was the book on quilting that a friend and I had co-authored. (This sort of publication credit means less than nothing to agents and publishers of novels.)

I sent out over sixty query letters in the space of three months before fining an agent who wanted to represent me. It's not a quick and easy process for most.

Is the publishing company that published your book a self publishing company?

No. A self-publishing company is one in which the writer pays to have his work printed. 

Self-publishing works well for people who have written a work that is probably going to have a limited audience.  Wonderful for a family history or a novel of regional interest. A major downside of self-publishing is that you don't get nation-wide distribution. There are other downsides but there are those who are passionate advocates of self-publishing.

 Guidance --

There's lots of that on line -- and my experience is so limited that I'm not the best person to ask.  And no, I can't take a look at manuscripts -- there's just not time, between trying to write my own books and teach the classes I teach and everything else in my life. 

I'm not trying to be unkind-- I'm honored that some folks have sought my advice. But to the best of my knowledge, there is no magic secret, no clever shortcut to publication. It's a lot of work. 

 

The High Sheriff

When we first moved to the mountains, I was charmed with the many unusual and antique turns of speech I heard from our older neighbors. "High Sheriff' was one of these, immediately reminding me of Robin Hood's evil nemesis -- The High Sheriff of Nottingham.  

  

Some states actually have High Sheriffs (usually the head sheriff in the state) and in England it is a ceremonial position. But as far as I can tell, in North Carolina it's not an official title -- just one used by the older people. Maybe a survival from earlier days in England or Scotland? I don't know.  But it's still heard now and again.

The word "sheriff" itself is a contraction of the term "shire reeve" -- a position that predates the Norman Conquest (1066). ( Remember the Reeve in The Canterbury Tales?)  The shire reeve was charged  with keeping the peace  throughout a shire or county on behalf of the king.

The mission is much the same today -- keeping the peace.

 <sup>The picture below from the early Twenties is 'High Sheriff'  Jesse James Bailey -- shown here with a mountain of seized moonshine stills. The Madison County Courthouse is in the background.

Not so much moonshine these days -- meth and marijuana are the illicit substances that today's high sheriff has to worry about.</sup>

Growing Chicks

Three weeks ago our "Freedom Ranger" chicks were fluff balls. Now they are partially feathered out and ready for the move from the brooder box to the elegant accommodation of the pasture chicken tractor.

 

Their rate of growth and those outsize legs make it clear that these are broiler chicks, destined for the table.

For now they're confined in the tractor but John will string an electrified netting to make an adjoining paddock.  In a few days, when they've gotten used to the chicken tractor, the door will be opened and the chicks will have a much expanded area to scratch and peck.

 Kate the donkey is watching the whole operation with interest.

At Long Last!

You may recall that I sent in Under the Skin back in mid-May. And that I haven't heard back from my editor as to whether she liked it or not. Though I've tried to remain stoical about it, I have been fretting. Just a tad.

I didn't want to email and ask if she'd read it yet. After all, I'd been very, very  much past my deadline in getting the book in -- how could I expect Herself to hurry with reading my manuscript? Besides, she was probably busy hanging out with her big, important guys -- you know, Lee Child, Karen Slaughter, Deb Crombie, Laurie King . . . that gang of NY Times bestsellers.

Or maybe, the voice of doubt said, Herself has read it. Maybe she hates it and is trying to find a way out of the contract. Or . . . or . . .

Finally my agent mentioned to Herself that we were wondering if she'd had a chance to take a look at Under the Skin.

What? says Herself, I read it back in May and accepted it and sent Vicki a note with a cc. to you. 

No, says Ann, my indefatigable agent, we didn't get a note.

Hmm, says, Herself, I'll have to check when I get back to the office.

Okay, now I knew that the book had been accepted. What I didn't know is how Herself felt about it.  And that matters rather immensely.

So I braved up and emailed Herself. And this is what she said.

 I think it's the best thing you've ever written. I was totally enmeshed in it--the characterizations were rich and fresh and the novel-within-the-novel was strong and instantly compelling. I hated for the book to end, I truly did.

Calloo, callay! Oh, frabjous day! I chortled in my joy!  

Herself went on to mention one plot line that needed reinforcing -- which I shall promptly give some thought to and address when I get the line-edited, copy-edited manuscript back.

But oh! what a weight is lifted!

A Foot

I found this foot -- a rather dirty foot --  quite beautiful in a sculptural sort of way. 

But couldn't decide if I preferred it in color . . . or black and white . . . or sepia.

(For some reason, Blogger is not showing your comments  -- I've received them in my email but they're not being posted here. Mysterious are the ways of Blogger -- maybe it will fix itself.) 

Now Miss Yves says her messages appear then disappear. Maybe the heat is getting to Blogger.  Some messges have appeared -- others not.  Puzzling.)

Tyger, Tyger

 Tyger, Tyger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

 

When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 
                                                                             William Blake - The Tyger

The Wisdom of the Founding Fathers

"And the rockets' red glare
The bombs bursting in air
Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there."

 Our country was founded on noble ideals put forth by slave-owning men who saw no reason to treat women as equals or people of color as anything but less than human. The history of our government's treatment of native peoples is appalling. Making a country seems to be as messy and unspeakable a process as making sausage -- you'd rather not see what goes into it.

We've improved, over the years. I don't think even the staunchest conservative who yammers on about the principles of the Founding Fathers would argue that slavery was a good idea or that women shouldn't have the vote.

Yes, we've come a long, long way -- but we're  not there yet. It will be interesting to see how this democracy thing works out -- maybe in another hundred years or so -- if we haven't blown up the planet or rendered it unlivable in some other way.

 Looking back, I find I've pretty well repeated last year's post -- down to the flower arrangement I make every 4th with hydrangeas for clouds and crocosmia and Queen Anne's Lace for firworks -- or rocket's red glare.


I dislike sounding so negative -- I love this country -- but I want it to be as fine as the most rabid patriots think it is.  And it won't get there by blinding ourselves to our shortcomings. 

G(Listen)

Glisten -- morning sun

Lights the soft blooms and

Twinkles in the pines.

Listen - is that a 

Mourning Dove's sad, soft cooing --

Pining for love lost?

Brave Miss Yves translates...

luis-lueur de l'aube
Eclairant les fleurs
brillant dans les pins

Ouïs:est-ce le
Chant de deuil d'une colombe
Pleurant son amour ?

 

Chasing Steeples

 As we were watching a DVD of Inspector Morse last night (alas, we've run through all the Foyle's War episodes,) I found myself thinking of our last trip to England -- a walking tour in the Cotswolds in 2006.  We made our way along well-marked public paths through fields and woods and almost always, as we approached the next village, we would sight the steeple of the largest and oldest church.

 We managed to visit a few stately homes and even statelier gardens but my favorite parts were less grand ... the pastures (humming 'Sheep May Safely Graze') . . .

 

and the tidy vegetable gardens.

 The houses set me dreaming . . . how charming to live in a cottage with a thatched roof!

Or, in this house below, which I saw only at a distance. It was perhaps my favorite, isolated as few others were.

 But a quick perusal of the ads offering houses for sale let us know that not in this lifetime could we ever afford property in the Cotswolds.

Not even a fixer-upper.

July -- and another blog of sorts...

I told you I was getting excited. And the really wonderful blurb I just received from Deborah Crombie has lifted me right out of those red-headed stepchild doldrums.

You can see it over at my Day of Small Things blog. Or in my monthly Goodweather Report. I'm quite proud of it since Deb is a writer whose work I really admire.

Just to reiterate -- the new Day of Small Things blog is really more of a website. I won't be doing posts, as such, just adding updates as reviews, etc. come in.  I've got the FAQ page up -- many thanks to those of you who had questions -- and will happily add to it if anyone has more questions.  I have ideas for more additions. If you have any thoughts on this, do let me know.

And of course, I'll be blogging right here, right along.  

See you tomorrow.