Survival of the most persistant

So I wrote a book, the title is Dissident. There’s so much to tell you. I don’t even know where to start. How about publishing. I had no idea what I was really getting myself into when I opened that word doc nearly two years ago.

To get a book in print, it’s best to go through an agent. At least for your first book. Querying agent after agent to see who is willing to represent it. This agent will find a publisher who will buy it and turn it into something amazing that people will buy.

And you can guess what happens when you’re an invisible first time author trying to get attention in a sea of others just like you. An endless parade of rejection letters. Or worse, just being ignored. I read somewhere that you should expect to be rejected (or ignored) 100 times before you find someone willing to take you seriously.

Not sure how true that is. But it was scare me away from the profession for a long time. Talk about a colossal waste of time.

But I also read that those who make it in the industry aren’t necessarily the ones with talent. This profession is all about survival of the most persistent.  Or in my case, relentless.

So at this date, I think I’m about a third of the way to my goal of querying 100 different agencies. After about the first ten it became a game of cut and paste. Each agent wants something just a bit different, but really it’s all the same. The same questions asked in a different order. Cut. Paste. Send. Next email.

Except for the guy who asked me what other ideas I had. Which made me laugh. Because he doesn’t realize that I have well organized outlines for about 10 more books on my computer waiting for my attention, and about 100 loose threads that are waiting in the corners of my mind for their turn to be woven into something that makes sense. And beyond that there’s a slush pile of random story elements that could be something. Someday. So we’ll just put the lid back on that can of worms and move on.

Survival of the persistent I tell you. Someone has to tell all these stories.  Make sense out of these pieces. I guess it's going to have to be me.

I’ll keep you posted.

The truth about the truth

The more fiction I write, the more I’m completely fascinated by it. And by how it’s totally not what I thought it was. So as I wrote my little book I had a handful of questions that I wanted to answer.

The first one is how do you fight a war without a weapon in your hand.

The second was what does it take to turn a nice boy into a murderer.

But there’s more.

With this book I wanted to think about Church politics. If you haven’t read the book, I have it set up so that the “favored” community represents the church as a body of believers set up over several locations. With my Academy set up as a representative physical church. A place my characters assume they’ll be safe from the murderous Underlanders.

But as most Christians are aware, standing in a church does not make you a Christian in the way that standing in a garage does not make you a car.

My characters are not safe in their church. The church has just as much internal conflict as any other organization that mankind dreamed up. Administrative runaround, discrimination and cliques, putting the needs of one’s self ahead of the needs of the group at large. No one likes to admit that these things exist within the church, but they do.

So much untapped tension in the church. I love it. So much more I can’t wait to point out in the future.

Don’t call us goody-two shoes. You have no idea. We’re just as messed up as you are.

So not so much of a question this time around as a comment on human nature.

True safety will never be found with another human or within a building.

The whole Christianity faith has so many different little nuance-y conflicts. Internal conflicts, external conflicts, some are more pronounced than others. But they're all rather beautiful in their own right, I’m not sure how many I’ll be able to address with these books. Some day. All of it. All these pretty little threads that tangle up my mind will be woven into something that makes sense to someone else.

 

 

On creating a murderer

When I first started writing I was all about trying to figure out a series of events that followed a logical progression. But after I was nearly done with the first draft of this book I realized I had no idea how to write a book. I had no idea that it wasn’t really about the sequence of events at all.

It was mostly about how my characters responded to what I did to them.

As in how they survived the worst things I could think up to do to them. Because the backbone of good fiction is pushing your character to his limit, just to see what he’ll do.

One of the questions I set out to answer in this story is what happens when you take a couple of normal people, people like me and my family, and back them into a corner. Then give them a weapon and see what they do.

When I think about my male lead, Tobias, I think of my son, Alex. What would it take for my boy to take a weapon and use it to murder someone? Would he be able to do it? How far would an enemy have to push him to get him to that point? And when he got to that point, would he really be able to do it? Would he lay down and die or fight back? If i was me, I’d probably just die.

Which is why I’m not a character in my story.

When characters revolt

So I’ve probably said it before, but I’ll say it again. Writing fiction does weird things to your head.

I’ve always had a bit of a screw loose (don’t laugh, Dad). I know. But writing fiction takes my oddness to a whole new level. So let me tell you a bit what it’s like when your characters decide that they’re real people. And don’t believe you when you try to say otherwise.

In the book I wrote, Dissident, my female character is Shiloh. I wanted her to follow in the footsteps of the other strong feminine warrior heroes. With girls like Katniss and Tris to live up to, she needed to be fierce or get out of the way.

But. One day I was twiddling around, trying to avoid responsibility and so I sat down with Pinterest to find some visuals. Ok. I decided to take her shopping. Shiloh and I. Shopping on Pinterest. Weird things to your head I tell you.

So anyway I was trying to figure out weapons and such, and she told me she didn’t want a sword. She wanted lace. LACE. I died just a bit when she said that. How am I supposed to have a warrior in a lacy top. Seriously. But she wasn’t kidding. Then she picked out a gold necklace that she wanted (which incidentally made it into the book, her picking out a gold necklace in town) because SHE WAS A GIRL and wanted to be treated LIKE A GIRL.

Who was I to argue?

So after her little “don’t give me a sword tantrum” I was left to figure out how to deal with this heroine who needed to learn how to be fierce without a weapon in her hand. I think as the story continues (still collecting ideas, but I think I’ll be able to complete the story with three books) I think you’ll be pleased to see how Shiloh figures out how to wage battle against her enemy without the sword I tried to give her. How to fight corruption and injustice on her own terms. How wars are one with words instead of with weapons.

Which is so much better than what I had originally figured out.

Strange things to your head I tell you. Characters that write their own stories.

Characters that don’t realize that they don’t really exist.

This is my world.

New digs

We did a little redecorating around here. Did you notice? All the stuff that blogger would let me change has been changed.

I was sort of sick of the last design. I put it together when we were adopting. When I was trying to figure out what I really wanted to do with this blog. When we made the gentle shift from being a blog that was only read by people I knew, to a blog that was read by a broader audience. When I realized that many people were touched by our adoption story, and those people were coming to hear more about the crazy things that God was doing with our family. People who didn’t know my entire life story, and frankly didn’t care what we did with our Saturday mornings.

So I feel myself shifting again, not back towards the “look at my breakfast” blog (heaven help me) but to acknowledge that people who have read my fiction might stop here. And I’d like to welcome them.

So if you’re on facebook I put together a newly decorated fan page to talk about all my stories, and all the stuff that passes through my brain that relates to my life as a writer.  

And…

If it makes it easier to remember, I made myself easier to search for by adding a static page.

elissa-peterson.blogspot.com

There’s a tab on that page that’ll bring you here, but if there’s a way to get from here to there I haven’t figured that part out yet.

Confessions of a church not pay attention-er

Yep. It’s time to come clean to a truth my children have known about me for some time now. You may have guessed it already. But if not, here goes:  I don’t always pay attention in church.

No, I wasn’t the lady two rows behind you having a conversation with her neighbor about lasagna during the pastoral prayer. You should know me better than that.  

I was the one with a pen and paper scribbling madly away before the pastor even put his first bullet point on the screen. And just between you and me, my furious note taking had nothing to do with Pastor Andy’s sermon. (Even though he’s fantastic, and you should totally listen to him. Like every word.)

The truth is, God meets me in church, and He meets me with words. And the words that He tends to dump upon me in profusion aren’t necessarily the words that are coming out of the pastor’s mouth. Eep. I know.

For way too long I tried to tell God to just shut up already so I could hear what the man up front was saying. But now that I’m older and smarter I realize just how silly that sounds.

Can’t talk now Jesus, I’m listening to Andy. Your truths are just going to have to wait. How’s 7:30 pm sound? I can talk then…

Yeah. That doesn’t really work, does it?

I cannot tell you how many of these blog posts are the fruit of my tendency to not pay attention in church.

You can count this one as one more.  

Tell me I can’t

-->

This month we’re talking about a contest I’ve entered. A fiction contest with the prize being a publishing opportunity in a book. A real book. With chapters, and contributors, and a royalty check. Not that I’m in it for the money. Cause I could really care less about that part. You should know that about me by now.

Anyway.

As I contemplate this season of anticipation. Of waiting to see whether the chips are going to fall in my favor or not. Of whether I really understood that not so gentle tug on my heart to put a bunch of made up words together into a somewhat coherent story line.

All I can do is think back to the last time I challenged God to put up or shut up. The last opportunity I had to stand on a rather precarious perch and announce that God was about to do something big.

That day I walked in front of a Russian judge and dared her to say no to God’s plan for my son.

You know how that story ended. The proof is here for you to read.

When I stepped in front of that judge on that cold November morning over two years ago, I knew in my heart that God had made a promise. Max was already my son. All I had to do was jump through the proper bureaucratic hoops to make the Russians know I wasn’t kidding about claiming him as my own.  

And today I stand on another precarious perch and tap hesitantly on my mic to see if anyone can hear me. Is this thing on? Because my God is about to do something big, and He wants you to be in the front row to see the whole thing.

So pull up a chair already. 

Here  I am. Not only am I about to win this dang contest, but I’m about to plop myself into a new job description. I’ma take that whole industry by storm. Just you watch. 

Not because I’ve always wanted to be a published author. Not because I’ve daydreamed about it since I was little and wished upon a star and all that crap. Because it’s mostly the opposite of that. Obviously.

This is the story of Mama who used to be totally happy wasting her days away in her beloved garden, taking way too many pictures of her precious children. A Mama who was dragged kicking and screaming into a roll that’s bigger than herself, her camera, and her garden. A Mama who’s willing to look like a big doofus by making a rather ridiculous claim on victory well before the winners are announced because her God made a promise. And she believed it.

But.

I do need votes.

Here’s that link again.
Leave a comment voting for #2 (me!) and #7 (my writing buddy Suzanne)
or you can send an email to the host: 
thequestfortruthbooks (a) gmail (dot) com

Just you wait. God’s going to do something big. BIG I tell you.

The truth behind the fiction...

So if you’re new to this conversation we’re talking about a writing contest I’ve entered. But what I don’t think most of you realize is that this whole thing is way more than just a contest.

In reality God is dragging me kicking and screaming into the world of fiction writing. For the past year and a half we’ve had the following conversation about 2-3 times a day:

God: Write the book.

Me: Nope. Writing a book is a dumb idea.

God: Really?

Me: Let’s say I do manage to find the time to wrangle 100,000 words into a somewhat coherent plot. Trying to break into the YA lit industry is next to impossible. Everyone knows that.

God: Tell me I can’t use you to publish a work of fiction. Tell. Me. I. Can’t.

Me: Ugh.  I hate it when You say that.

God: I know. Write the book and I’ll stop saying it.

Me: (eye roll)

The reality of the situation is that God has been pursuing me with elements of fiction for longer than I’d like to admit. Every single day something random jumps out at me and begs to be worked into a plotline. Yesterday it was a piece of string on the kitchen floor. Today it was the goofy faces my daughters were making at dinner.

My family and I have taken to discussing plot ideas around the dinner table on a regular basis. Plot ideas for books I don’t want to write.

I have pages and pages of notes on character ideas, setting ideas and the like that are all waiting for me to turn them into something intelligible.  I like to pretend these pages don’t really exist. But they do.

I have characters that follow me around and whisper in my ear. They beg and plead, “we have a story to tell the world, and we want you to hear it first. Won’t you please listen for a moment?”

I’ve often wondered if this is what it feels like to be crazy. To be followed by invisible people who don’t realize they aren’t real.

And I secretly wish that someone would tell me my work is horrible so I have ammunition for this dumb argument I’m having with God about the book I don’t want to write, and the books that will surely come after it. But no one will tell me that. So I’m left to argue with God by myself.

So what’s really happening here is that God has pushed me (completely against my will) to the brink of a life changing doorway. The doorway to something bigger than myself.

But in order to pull this off, I need your votes. Because that’s the way the game is played this time around.

So if you believe in a God who does crazy things (like pursue people with fictional characters) I need your vote.

If you believe in a God who says Tell Me I Can’t. I need your vote.

And if you can’t find it in your heart to vote for me and my crazy schemes, will you please, please pray that God would tell these dad-gummed characters to leave me alone already. Because He’s sort of ignoring my pleas.

Thanks. Here’s the link again. Read my submission, I'm #2, but my  friend Suzanne is #7 and you should vote for her too. There's still time to get your votes in for both of us, so hop to it already...

Or the email address that you can also send a vote to: thequestfortruthbooks (a) gmail (dot) com

But what of the children...

So I shared a bit earlier this week about a writing contest I’ve entered. In my entry a thief has kidnapped the general’s children and instead of acting on his first impulse, Caligulus seeks wisdom from the Table of Elders about the best way to address the situation.

But what of the children? Here’s a little bonus scene that I cut out of my submission that I thought you might enjoy. 

Alexander shifted his position slightly trying to peak through a crack between planks in the solid oak door.  He rapped on it twice, listening to the heavy thunk, thunk sound his knuckles made as they made contact with the door. He traced the square outline of the tiny opening they’d used to pass his breakfast through an hour ago. He was afraid of what was on the other side of that door. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t help it.

He turned his attention back to the slumbering form that shared his cell. She looked so tiny there, lying on a pile of hay like a little field mouse. But he wasn’t fooled. His little sister Ellery was anything but a tiny rodent, all cowering and scared. She might be small for her age, but she had enough personality to fill ten stadiums. Maybe twenty. The people who roamed the hallways were wise to keep a strong lock on that door; lest his sister escape and give them a piece of her mind.

He smiled to himself as he imagined the moment where his sister finally came face to face with her captors. How her fury would lick at them like a flame left unchecked; blistering their eyelids and singeing loose strands of hair.

But if she wasn’t afraid of them, then he certainly wasn’t either. He was older after all. Not much older, but enough. Enough to make him feel like he needed to watch over her. Keep her from killing herself with all her stupid stunts.

Boy she’d gotten them in deep this time, hadn’t she? Up to their necks in who knew what? He had no idea how they’d gotten themselves locked up, or where they even were. Aside from being on the wrong side of a locked jail cell door, that part was a bit obvious.

 Go vote for me here.

(leave a comment in the comment section)

 I’m number 2. And while you’re there, vote for number 7 also, because the writer for that segment is my pal Suzanne. 

or if you don't want to wade through all those comments you can also drop a line with your votes to 

thequestfortruthbooks (a) gmail (dot) com.