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Shipwrecked in Margaritaville

My friend Scott is Canadian. This gives him a secret power: he’s nice. It is therefore impossible to refuse him, because it would be like having a slapdown with a kitten. So, when Scott asked if my husband and I would go with him to a Jimmy Buffett concert at Fenway, of course we said yes.

I’d heard of Jimmy Buffett. It’s pretty hard to grow up in the U.S. without knowing some of the words to “Margaritaville,” Buffett’s trademark anthem. But I’d never had any desire to see the guy–I’m more of a World Music fan—and I had no idea what to expect.

Scott drove down from Quebec prepared with appropriate concert attire for all of us: giant Hawaiian shirts and, for himself, a hat with an actual stuffed parrot on it.

“Are you sure this looks okay?” my husband asked, modeling his shirt for me.

He looked like a cruise ship refugee. “Scott’s Canadian, honey,” I reminded him. “We have to do whatever he says.”

In my case, the Hawaiian shirt hung down to my knees, so I thought I could beg off looking like a Parrothead, which is what you call a Buffett groupie. But Scott had thoughtfully brought a backup: my very own Margaritaville t-shirt. I dug a bird purse out of somewhere deep in my closet and off we went.

Apparently the highlight of Parrothead life is tailgating, but since tailgating isn’t permitted at Fenway Park, Scott suggested that we pre-game at one of the bars offering a Jimmy Buffett party before the show. “Really?” I said. “They do that?”

They do. We ended up at The Summer Shack, which had gone all-out with blow-up tropical accessories like parrots and palm trees, and offered special deals on—what else?–margaritas and cheeseburgers. There was even a Jimmy Buffett imitator. The place was packed with people in Hawaiian shirts and leis; the guy next to me at the bar cheerfully confessed that this was his ninth Parrothead experience.

The music didn’t stop when we left the Shack, either. Walking to Fenway with small herds of other people in Hawaiian shirts, grass skirts, and coconut bras—yes, even the men–we were passed by dozens of pedicabs blaring Buffett tunes as fit college kids pedaled Parrotheads to the concert, many of them hefty from too many cheeseburgers in paradise.

Fenway Park was solidly booked. We were funneled up the stairs to our seats with all of the other Parrotheads, many of whom were guys in their twenties and thirties—Buffett must play big in frat houses and at spring break parties—and I began noticing shark hats as a feisty alternative to parrot hats, though I had no idea why. The Fenway crowd was warmed up by the always energetic, entertaining Peter Wolf and the Midnight Travelers, and then it was time for “Sweet Caroline” and the crowd shouting “So good! So good!”

Finally, Buffett took the stage with his Coral Reefer Band. The crowd went wild, with beach balls and blow-up sharks and parrots being tossed around as the backdrop screens showed beach scenes with guys surfing, hula girls, hammocks, and sailboats. Buffett appeared, barefoot and in shorts, and my first thought was that he looked a lot like my dad, with his monk’s fringe of white hair. My second thought was, “Wow. Nice tan.”

The meaning of the shark hats became clear halfway through the night, when Buffett played “Fins,” a song I’d never heard, and one that has lyrics that probably wouldn’t fly in this #MeToo day and age. The crowd didn’t care. They embraced the opportunity to joyfully dance like sharks, putting their outstretched arms over their heads and clasping their hands in a move we do in yoga, though less vigorously.

In fact, the crowd embraced everything: Buffett’s songs, his dad jokes, his cheesy backdrops of sailboats and beaches. It was like being at an adult Disney park, a separate, candy-colored universe where everyone just wants to hang out on the beach and eat cheeseburgers, get drunk, and screw after finding that long lost shaker of salt. Buffett himself is like Disney, with his own $550 million empire of restaurants, merchandise, retirement condos, and now a Broadway show.

I should have hated the concert. I am not a wannabe beach bum. But, as we walked back to the car from Fenway with our nice Canadian, I felt oddly peaceful in the humid dark. It was almost as if I’d spent the day at the beach.

Where the Red Dirt Roads Have Led Me: Celebrating a 25-Year Love Affair with Prince Edward Island

By Holly Robinson 8 Comments

Just a week ago today, my new puppy, Merlin, and I were rambling down another one of Prince Edward Island’s red dirt roads with my good friend and fellow writer, Toby Neal. This particular road is a favorite of mine, because it takes us through fields of blueberry bushes and deposits us at a path to the beach.

It’s a particularly fragrant path, one that tunnels through wild rose bushes and Queen Anne’s Lace, lupins and boneset before arriving at the base of a steep dune. Up and over the dune we go, and then we arrive at what I call “Sea Glass beach,” because of the quantity and colors of sea glass you can collect here. Toby and I walk along the water while Merlin dashes in and out of the waves. As we walk, we keep our heads down, talking and poking through stones to find the bits of color. I’m so relaxed that my jaw actually feels heavy.

We’ve had a lot of meditative beach walks on this trip, Toby and I, as well as the excitement of the Rollo Bay Fiddle Festival, dinners and teas with friends, and an evening caleigh just down the road. All of this has helped us dive into our new books during long hours of morning writing.

It’s a different rhythm for me here on the island than I used to have, way back when I first started coming to PEI twenty-five years ago as a newly divorced mom with two young children. I couldn’t afford to rent a vacation cottage on Martha’s Vineyard or Cape Cod, or even in Maine. Then, one morning, I read a classified ad by someone renting “a dreamy seaside cottage in Anne’s Land” for $300 a week. (Anne, of course, is Anne of Green Gables, the plucky orphan in the books by Lucy Maud Montgomery.)

Even I could afford that. So I called my friend, the poet Emily Ferrara—another single mom—and the two of us drove up to PEI in a rented van with our four young children. You could only get here by ferry, before they put in the Confederation Bridge—eight miles of miracle engineering—and so it took us nearly fifteen hours. We arrived at midnight, and I drove on my first red dirt road by moonlight to a small cottage, unlocked the door, and fell into bed.

The next morning, I woke to fiddle music. I went to the window and saw that my first red dirt road had led me to Rustico Bay. Great blue herons stood like sentries along the edge of the water, and the white church across the Bay had a steeple striped in red like a barber pole. The fiddle festival was at the church, and away we went to glory in the music.

That was the start of my love affair with the island. Eventually I invited another of my best friends, the writer Susan Straight, to come with me. She flew to Boston from California, and together we caravanned up to PEI with our children to rent side-by-side cottages. After spending several more summers together on PEI, Susan bought a house on the island. By then, I had married my second husband and introduced him to PEI. The two of us bought a cottage after our fifth child was born, and then sold that and bought a year-round farmhouse, because we realized that we wanted to be able to come to the island all year long.

“What’s so special about it?” friends have asked, and I’m hard-pressed to describe the appeal. I’ve been to magnificent cities and beaches and hiking trails around the world, from Nepal to New Zealand to Spain, yet I always want to return to PEI, where there are homemade biscuits with every meal, fish and chips for dinner, an East Coast music scene that redefines Celtic fiddling and traditional music, a hundred different varieties of potatoes or more, people who still have time to stop and chat, and long red dirt roads leading to a different paradise every time you ramble.

Our turn-of-the-century blue clapboard farmhouse is a quirky place—one of our son’s friends once said, “What is this, Little House on the Prairie?” because of the three shingled barns and the view of sheep grazing below and the potato fields across the street, and because of the quirky kitchen, which has five doors but neither dishwasher nor washing machine. The tall windows have to be propped open with sticks, and every room upstairs has a different floral wallpaper pattern. Oh, and the shower ceiling is low enough that I barely fit, and I’m only 5’4”.

But the woodwork is all original, including the gorgeous floors, and I love how the newel post is worn smooth from so many hands reaching for it over the years. A few days after arriving here, I always feel like the steady breezes of the Canadian Maritimes have whisked away all of the usual worries I carry around back home, and the writing always comes more easily here.

“It’s a pilgrimage for you, isn’t it?” Toby said, and I suppose it is, now.

There is always a moment, during that long, long drive to Prince Edward Island through the pine trees of Maine and beneath the wide open skies of New Brunswick, where I think, “This is too far. Why do we have this house? I ought to just sell it. This is stupid.”

Then I cross the Confederation Bridge and there’s the island, with its red cliffs and verdant fields and Victorian farmhouses, and those red dirt roads that lead to the light sparkling silver and pewter and blue and deep purple on the sea, and I take a deep breath and know I’m where I was meant to be.

Meet Bestselling Author Maddie Dawson, Whose Writing Tips Might Surprise You

By Holly Robinson 3 Comments

(Peter Casolino-New Haven Register) Guilford author Sandi Kahn Shelton, who also writes under the pen name of Maddie Dawson. 3/31/14

Within days of publishing her newest novel, Matchmaking for Beginners, author Maddie Dawson hit sales numbers most writers only dream about. I’m always happy to see other writers do well–we all know how tough it is out there–but I’m especially happy in this instance, because Maddie is one of my dearest friends. There couldn’t be a funnier, nicer, more generous woman on the planet, and she’s one of my go-to Mom Writer Pals when I need to celebrate something or be talked off the ledge after an epic fail. Here, she tells us about her novel and gives some savvy writing advice.

Q. First of all, congratulations on hitting stratospheric bestseller status with Matchmaking for Beginners! You know how much I loved the book. How did you hatch this unusual plot?

A. Matchmaking for Beginners arrived in my head in bits and pieces, the way a lot of novels do. (I’ve never had one glide in, plant itself in the center of my brain, and then cooperate while I unpacked its contents, have you?) My novels give me little drabs and dribbles of information, letting me go on writing for quite some time in the wrong direction before some character clears her throat and suddenly decides to release another tidbit or two that (usually) changes the whole story. I could be mistaken for a maniac when I’m starting a new novel: staring vacantly into space and then leaping up to scribble notes on the backs of envelopes and receipts; veering my car to the side of the road when my main character decides to tell me some startling news that I’m sure I won’t remember if I don’t write it down that moment; and (my husband’s personal favorite), jumping out of bed at 2:37 a.m., grabbing for paper and pen.

With Matchmaking, all I knew at first was that I was sick of listening to the news, and I wanted to write a story about love and its infinite possibilities. I didn’t want it to be a romance novel in the classic sense—but I wanted a protagonist who was unusual and wise and who could perform a bit of magic. And then I was off. Blix, age 85, showed up in my head, and she told me she had all kinds of matchmaking projects going on—most of them going rather badly, by her own estimation—and since she was dying, she wanted to do one more amazing connection before she went. And that’s where Marnie came in—Marnie who was engaged to Blix’s grandnephew, a lout named Noah. From the moment they met, Blix was working on getting Marnie to recognize her true love, an introvert who had turned his back on life. These two kept me entertained by each telling parts of the story, competing for my attention, and weaving a tale that came out in bits and pieces. They were exhausting (see above: 2:37 a.m.) but by the time I was writing the words, “The End,” their story had also cheered me up and made me smile.

Q. You’ve been a journalist for most of your writing career as well as a novelist. How does your journalistic experience influence your fiction, or vice versa? Which do you prefer writing and why?

A. Journalism and I have a funny relationship. It knows it was my second career choice (after novel-writing seemed like it wasn’t going to yield steady paychecks for a while, if ever.) I minored in it in college during my senior year, and then, upon graduation, found myself suddenly the editor of a hometown weekly paper attending town meetings and writing about sewer bonds. I was stunned to discover that I actually cared about such things. I became passionate about town meetings! I urged my friends to start hanging out at Planning and Zoning Commission meetings—there was fun and drama to be soaked up there, fascinating characters and plot twists! I wrote feature stories about people who were passionate about something they were doing. I learned the discipline of writing on deadline and of making each word count. I also started writing a humor column about family life that ran for ten years in The New Haven Register.

Still, journalism had one big strike against it, to my thinking. Everything that happens in journalism has one strict caveat: it has to be true. (I know–unbelievably limiting.) So to keep myself happy, I was always working on a novel on the side. By the time my first novel was published, seventeen years after I’d started it (ahem), I had made friends with journalism, and it no longer felt like the stepchild of my writing world. But I love fiction more. I love it with a passion that knows no bounds. Journalism is the safe older aunt, with the writing proceeding in a nice, orderly progression and no wild surprises. Journalism, it must be said, does not wake me up in the middle of the night out of excitement.

Q. In teaching writing classes, what are the three most important pieces of advice you hope your students will absorb?

A. After writing (and sometimes instead of writing, if a novel is giving me fits), I love teaching best. I teach writing workshops, and my favorite moments are when someone discovers the power of storytelling—seeing and feeling the reaction that their own words can evoke in others. After all, that is why we write, isn’t it? And in workshops, that feedback brings almost instant gratification. I have a few pieces of advice that over the years I give to the writers who gather around my dining room table.

The first is: be yourself. The best pieces show a kind of vulnerability and willingness to tell the truth, even if you’re just writing a humor piece about last night’s dinner table. Tell the emotional truth in everything you write, and we’ll follow you anywhere.

The second piece of advice: There is no substitute for actual, you know, sitting down and writing. Planning isn’t writing, researching isn’t writing, and talking about your book certainly isn’t writing. You have to put your butt in the chair and really do it or it won’t get done. Here’s another startling piece of news, that I have to learn again and again, even after so many years: the more time you put in to writing something, the more words you’ll accumulate. It’s startling, I know.

Third (and most important): Don’t think you’re going to be able to write the final draft first. Being a writer requires that you get over the fact that you are going to write badly, (sometimes very badly) and that first drafts suck, and that you will re-read what you’ve written and want to go seek employment cleaning out sewer lines. Take comfort in the knowledge that all writers have to deal with the fact of the Horrible First Draft, and that things only get better when you’ve rehashed the same material many, many times. Many. You wouldn’t believe how many. Tell yourself you’re in no hurry, and that this is where the fun is. Learn to love revision.

What Can Puppies Teach Writers? Plenty

By Holly Robinson 14 Comments

After my beloved dog Leo died, I entered a thick fog of grief. I felt his absence keenly because he was such an integral part of my life, keeping me company on walks and while I was writing, on the couch and in the car.

Logically, I knew I shouldn’t get another dog. I’m never bored. I have a great marriage, two lovely old cats, lots of friends, and work I love. I tried hard to allow myself to grieve, while at the same time embracing the idea that I was freer than I had ever been since parenthood. Without a dog to tie me down, I could work a solid nine-hour day, sleep late, and take off for New York City on a whim.

But, after several months, I’d had enough. I’m a dog person and nothing can change that.

Leo was a Pekingese, a sort of accidental purchase. It’s an uncommon breed but I adore it—Pekes are small but sturdy, great on hikes and calm enough to lie around while you work–so I sought out a local breeder and found a puppy I loved. Even before bringing him home, I named him Merlin because of his tufted eyebrows and white beard.

“A puppy?” a friend gasped. “Honest to God, think of the work. You need to have your head examined.”

I knew what she meant—the housebreaking and constant chewing, the endless hours of play a puppy requires are huge responsibilities. (Even as I write this, I’m playing fetch.) But, in the week since Merlin joined our family, this tiny man has shown me just how much puppies can teach writers:

1. “Who’s a Good Dog? You’re a Good Dog!”

Ever notice how that’s the first thing most people say when greeting a puppy? That’s why most puppies run up to strangers, wagging their tails and launching themselves into the air for pats and treats: they expect to be praised.

Making time to write means giving ourselves permission every day to be writers, even if we’re not making money at it or our agents and editors keep saying our drafts need work. Watching Merlin made me start imagining how great I’d feel if everyone I met said, “Who’s a good writer? You’re a good writer!” Try this, and you might start believing in yourself.

2. Chew on It

Chewing on something is one of the best ways to find out whether you like it. From rug fringe to new treats, from shoelaces to squeaking toys, Merlin chews whatever he can reach: aggressively at times, meditatively at others. Writing is exactly the same. You need to give yourself time to taste every new idea and ruminate on it for a while before you know whether it’s going to be good.

3. Go Fetch

If there’s something moving, run after it and bring it back! That idea floating through your dreamy state as you go to bed might be just the one that helps you work out your latest plot kink. Capture it in a notebook or even on a scrap of paper and bring it back. Test it out, change it, then bring it back again.

4. Friends Make Life Better

We writers spend an unholy number of hours alone every day, playing with ideas and imaginary friends. But real-life friends can make you see the world—and the worlds you’re creating—from different perspectives. Seek out other authors not only as critique partners or when you need blurbs for your new book, but as friends who understand the highs and lows of the writing life.

5. Exercise Your Body as Well as Your Mind

Sometimes the ideas don’t come, no matter how much time you spend at your desk or on your bed. It’s fine to take a break from writing. Run around, play fetch, and hike the trails. Taking a break is often a good way to get some fresh writing done, because you’re unlocking your creativity through movement.

6. Embrace Surprises

One of the funniest things in our house is watching how hard Merlin tries to play with our two old cats. One of them wants nothing to do with him and told him so on the first day with a good swipe of her claws. The other cat surprised Merlin—and us—by playing along. He takes walks beside Merlin as if he’s on a leash, too, and lets Merlin bat him around and lick his ears like he’s a giant stuffed toy. When you’re writing, your characters will often surprise you by misbehaving, or they’ll go in directions you didn’t expect and say things that you didn’t plan to put in their mouths. Embrace the surprises. That’s part of the fun of writing.

Okay, your turn: What have your pets taught you about the creative life?

PS If you enjoyed this post and want to receive a monthly email from me with more writing tips, author interviews, giveaways, and more, just add your email using the signup widget in my sidebar. I’d love to stay in touch!

How to Keep Running Even If You Hate It

By Holly Robinson Leave a Comment

I’m no athlete. I made the cheering squad in high school only because I was loud and had a job shoveling horse manure, so I was strong enough to hold up the bottom of the pyramid. As the years went by, I begrudgingly joined a few gyms and made halfhearted attempts at using treadmills and other torture devices, but nothing stuck.

Then, a couple of years ago, I noticed an ad in the local paper for a “couch-to-5K” program. No way could I afford it, I thought, but when I emailed the coach, she told me it was free. Ha! Well, I probably couldn’t make the practices anyway. I work, right? But, when I emailed her to tell her this, the coach shot back a note saying the group met on Saturdays and in the evenings. Out of excuses, I dragged myself to the track and began putting one foot in front of the other.

It was hell, but a hell made tolerable by the fact that other people were panting with me in our walk-run training sessions. I made it through the first 5K after six weeks of training, and didn’t even come in last. (Yes, I set the bar low.)

After that, I thought I’d probably stop running, like I’d quit every other exercise regime. Instead, a funny thing happened: I began to feel better when I was running consistently than when I wasn’t, and stuck with it. Now I run three to five miles almost daily, and I’m getting ready to do a 10K.

How did I keep running even through the times I hated it? Here are a few strategies that worked for me. I hope they’ll help you, too.

It Starts with the Shoes

For years, I wore the wrong shoes to exercise. I didn’t know this until I actually went to a running store and asked their sales people to evaluate my stride. (Yup, it was humiliating to have these clerks, all built like greyhounds, watch me puff away on their treadmill indoors). They told me to go up a half size and buy wider shoes to accommodate my various arthritic humps and bunions, and boy, I’ve never had such comfortable footwear. It might cost you a few more dollars to get shoes this way, but do it. You can’t run if your feet hurt.

Make Some Music

Many coaches encourage runners not to listen to music. It’s a safety thing, obviously, especially if you’re running on roads. But I would have quit running for sure if I hadn’t had music to keep me going, so get an iPod nano and make some play lists, or subscribe to Spotify and use your phone.

Let Yourself Walk

One of the mistakes I made when I was trying to run on my own many years ago was that I’d bolt out the door and get discouraged when my lungs couldn’t keep up with my legs. Even now, I always walk for five minutes or so before I start running, and hey, if it’s a hot, humid day, I still walk now and then. So what? I’m covering the same distance, and gradually I’ve had to walk less and less.

Vary Your Runs

People told me to vary my runs, but I didn’t believe in the value of this until I tried doing it myself. Why would I drive anywhere, when I can just start running out of my own front door? Because it’s freakin’ boring, that’s why. After a year of circumnavigating every road in my neighborhood, I was sick to death of the scenery. Driving to new places takes a little time, but you’ll cover more distance if you have new things to look at. Signing up for 5Ks in different towns is another great way to discover cool running spots.

Try the Trails

Once I’d gotten used to the idea of driving different places to run, I also began experimenting with trail running. This is my newest favorite thing. Yes, some trails are tricky—again, it’s fine to walk if you’re descending a steep gravel hill and don’t want to break your hip in the middle of nowhere—but the beauty of loping in the woods like an antelope (okay, I’m an optimist with an imagination) makes up for the extra footing challenges.

Add Some Weights and Yoga

Running is a great cardio exercise, but don’t forget to work out your arms and abs—add some weights a few days a week. It’s also important to keep stretching the muscles you’re growing. I added yoga two or three times a week, and it has made a huge difference in my overall strength training. Plus, who doesn’t want to lie on a mat after running five miles?

In Praise of Special Library Collections and their Curators

By Holly Robinson 4 Comments

As necessary as libraries have always been to me for books and quiet spaces, until recently I never understood that libraries provide one more essential service: curating and maintaining special collections for scholars and writers.

As the author of contemporary fiction, the only research I’ve had to do involved gathering firsthand experiences in, say, making pottery or sheep farming. Then, for a series of complicated reasons that included a museum visit and my love of gardening, the muse brought me the idea of writing a book set in the 19^th century. There are two plot lines revolving around a mystery and clues planted in a hidden garden. One of those plot lines features a contemporary character, while the other is set in 1878 on the Isles of Shoals, where Celia Thaxter, one of the country’s most beloved poets at that time, ran one of the country’s first grand seaside resorts, Appleton House, and had a famous garden.

I loved the idea of the book, but I was wary about being able to write it. I have never been much of a history buff. When I went to school, history was taught in a way that ensured most children would be asleep within ten minutes of the class starting, because of the emphasis on memorizing dead people’s names and dates of distant battles, so I knew little about the 19^th century.

As I started writing the novel, my ignorance became apparent whenever I had to describe things like what my characters were wearing or eating. It’s easy enough to research things online, and I was able to find three biographies of Celia Thaxter; however, I still felt like my writing in the historical plot line lacked vivid imagery, believable dialogue, and attention to detail.

And so I started stumbling around in libraries, and discovered an entire world of special collections curated by librarians who were generous and enthusiastic about guiding me on my journey.

My first find was a cache of letters in the Boston Public Library written by Celia to her best friend, Annie Fields, wife of the publisher James Fields. (Can we please just say “Eureka!?”) While some of those letters had been collected in a book, many had not been, and they often contained juicy bits about Celia’s life. These letters are in her handwriting, on her stationery, and there was something mind-blowing about being able to really “feel” Celia’s personality through her penned words.

I read through about half of the letters and began writing the novel. Later, when I wanted to make an appointment to read the rest, I was devastated to discover that the library was undergoing renovations and they were digitizing the archive, so I couldn’t access them. Then the Curator of Manuscripts, Kimberly Reynolds, flew to my rescue, suggesting that I could send her a flash drive and she’d have the letters downloaded onto it and mail it back!

Meanwhile, once I had discovered the power of primary source material, I set about searching for other special collections. Over and over again, I was amazed by what I found, and astonished by the generosity of the curators who guided me on my journey.

The Portsmouth Athenaeum had not only letters, but some of Celia’s original paintings, photographs, and several pieces of the porcelain china she used to decorate and sell. The Harvard University Herbaria & Libraries proved me with journals and letters by Celia’s husband, Levi, and information about her son, Roland, who studied and taught botany at Harvard. Beyond that, Senior Curatorial Assistant Walter Kittredge gave me essential information about a particular plant that I wanted to use as one of the clues in the hidden garden.

Colby College had a unique stash of correspondence between Celia and the writer Sarah Orne Jewett, among other things. And then, lo and behold, I discovered an entire library at the University of New England devoted just to women writers from Maine: The Maine Women Writers Collection. There, curator Cathleen Miller opened up boxes containing more of Celia’s letters, original copies of The Atlantic Monthly where Celia published her first poem, and a box that contained the most beautiful porcelain teacup I’d ever seen, painted and signed by Celia in 1879. (See photo above, along with the photo of a letter from Celia, also housed in The Maine Women Writers Collection.)

I sent the final revision of the novel off to my agent last week with a kiss for good luck. (Okay, I only blew the kiss at the laptop screen—back in the old days, I would have literally kissed the giant padded mailing envelope before sending it on its way.) Now I feel bereft, not only because the novel is gone and I’m no longer living in 1878, but because my passionate quest into curated library collections is over, and so is my treasure-hunter’s euphoria.

Unless, of course, I decide to pursue this next idea I have…

Do You Need an Agent? Here’s What an Agent Can, and Can’t, Do for You

By Holly Robinson 5 Comments

As I walked into the hotel lobby, I was greeted by a sign announcing that I was in the right place: the site of Muse and the Marketplace, a writers’ conference put on by Grub Street in Boston. I wasn’t here to attend workshops or mingle. I had a lunch meeting with my agent, who had been reading the third draft of my novel after I’d rewritten it completely: new point of view, certain characters killed off, a hundred pages axed entirely.

In other words, it was almost a completely different book and I was nervous. Not about meeting my agent, exactly—I adore her—but because I was afraid that she wouldn’t like this new revision. To jack up my jitters, the Park Plaza Hotel was crawling with writers, many of them here to pitch their manuscripts to agents and get one of their own. The air was crackling with anxiety.

The writer-agent relationship is complicated, right up there with parent-child in terms of how bad or how good your agent can make you feel. Add to this the fact that your agent can make or break your career, and it’s probably no wonder that, with so many new publishing avenues, a lot of writers are opting to fly solo.

1. Do You Really Need an Agent to Submit Your Work?

Yes and no. If you’re striving to be traditionally published, especially by one of the big houses—Hatchette, HarperCollins, Macmillan, Penguin Random House, or Simon and Schuster—then you must have an agent. Likewise, Amazon’s publishing imprints, like Lake Union, are more likely to take a serious look at your manuscript if it’s agented. Some of the smaller literary and academic presses prefer to work with agents as well. You do not need an agent to self-publish your work or to publish with one of the hybrid boutique houses—though I’d urge you to hire a lawyer to look at the contract with those publishers to make sure you’re not giving away all of your rights.

2. How Do You Get an Agent?

There are four top strategies for finding an agent: 1) ask friends who have agents if they’ll recommend you, 2) look in the acknowledgment pages of books similar to yours to find the agents who represented them, 3) read interviews with agents in Poets & Writers magazine, and 4) attend writers’ conferences that set up meetings between agents and writers. Once you’ve assembled a list of names, check out the web sites of these agents and do exactly what they say to put together query letters and submissions.

3. How Do You Know If an Agent Is Right for You?

First, never pay an agent up front. Reputable literary agents take a percentage of the money you earn, and that only happens if the agent sells something for you. Second, check out the agent’s list, which will probably be posted online. If she has a good history of selling thrillers, but you write science fiction, ask what her strategy would be going forward with your book. In fact, that’s a good conversation to have with any agent. Third, ask how hands-on she is as an editor. Some writers have agents who give their manuscripts a cursory read before submitting them, while I prefer agents like mine, who really pushes me to make the book better through multiple drafts before submitting it.

4. After You Get an Agent, How Do You Take Care of Her?

I phrased this question deliberately because that is EXACTLY what you need to do. Just as your agent will take care of you by helping you revise your work, submitting it to the right editors, and pushing for bigger advances or international sales, you must take care of your agent. This means working hard on your end and respecting her limits. Don’t whine for attention or cry about lousy sales. Don’t expect her to rush into reading your manuscript if she has seven others ahead of yours, and don’t expect her to work miracles. Sometimes, really wonderful manuscripts get turned down because the market is sagging, publishers are looking for another sort of timely topic, or your last book’s sales were mediocre. That’s not the agent’s fault, nor is it yours. All you can do if that happens is write another book. Always thank your agent for her efforts. And, if she does sell something for you, make sure you demonstrate your gratitude. Remember: you’re not the only one going up against the wall and getting rejections or hoping for a big deal. In an ideal agent-writer relationship, the two of you are a dynamic team, putting your heads together when it comes to making crucial decisions not just about a single book, but about your career.

The Incredible Weirdness of Being a Writer

By Holly Robinson 8 Comments

I went on a writing retreat recently. Nothing fancy; this wasn’t one of those places where you’re in a cabin in the mountains and people bring food to your door. This was a low-budget apartment rental with a friend, but it had everything I needed: a kitchen, a gorgeous harbor view, and absolute quiet.

The purpose of writing retreats for me is to tunnel into a project, usually when I’m trying to start something new or finish a book. Works like a charm. However, as I settle into these retreats, there is always this strangely terrifying moment where I think, “What the hell do I think I’m doing?”

It’s such a debutante activity, this whole writing thing. With so many activities vying for our attention, who needs another book in the world? What makes me think I’ll find readers, or even a publisher? Why aren’t I doing something more productive, like working for actual money or volunteering my time to do good in the world?

And yet, I stayed. I wrote. I edited. For forty-eight hours that weekend, I churned out new words and tossed out old ones. I came up with new plot points and emotions for my characters. I resisted, sometimes, the urge to Google various diseases or check Facebook. I came away from the retreat feeling like I’d failed, then read the pages when I got home and thought, “Huh. That’s not half bad. I bet I can revise this into something.”

If you decide to be a writer, there will be times in your life where you will have to commit to the writing. Over and over again, especially after rejections, you will have to commit to keep at it.

What does that writer’s life look like? The one where you commit to the process?

It looks weird to most people. For me, it has meant being a freelance writer instead of a full-time public relations executive (my previous life). That translates into driving an ancient car and being grateful that my husband has a steady salary and provides our family with health benefits.

It has meant staying in on Saturday nights and skipping that movie or party, and editing manuscripts even while technically watching my son’s gymnastic class or my daughter’s field hockey meet. It has meant that many days I never make it out of my sweat pants. And it means suffering a crisis of confidence every time I show a manuscript to critique partners or editors and they say, “This isn’t working.”

Committing to your writing means having the confidence in yourself to keep going, even when all of the signs point to the irrationality of your activity. It means believing that the written word is worth putting on the page, even if you’re the only one who will ever read it. It means believing that writing books is a valuable creative endeavor, even if those books never actually end up between covers.

Being a writer means that you actually write, a lot, and don’t just say you’re going to or you should have or you want to. Over and over again, you must commit to the act of writing instead of spending your time some other, more pleasurable, productive, or profitable way. It means reaching inside of yourself until sometimes you feel turned inside out, and that’s a good feeling, but it can feel awful, too, because you are exposed and vulnerable, especially if your writing does get published.

The decision to commit to your writing is a weird one, no matter how you look at it. But sometimes it’s the only decision that is worth making, because it’s who you are and what you want to be, not just when you are young and passionate and idealistic, but when you are a grown-ass person who has a mortgage and ought to know better.

Sometimes, being a writer is the only life worth living.

How to Revise a Novel: 5 Practical Strategies

By Holly Robinson 8 Comments

I sent the complete draft of my new novel to my agent in September. When I got her editorial notes some weeks later, there were more things to revise in the book than things to keep.

I thought about tabling the project. Or even trashing it. Sometimes fixing a book means turning the whole thing inside out. It can seem daunting, or even impossible. But, once you get going, it’s actually pretty fun.

Yup. I said “fun.” And all artists go through the same process. For instance, I recently saw a great Peabody Essex Museum exhibit that highlighted Georgia O’Keeffe’s fashion style as well as her artwork. In looking at the detailed shapes and stitching of her clothing choices, it’s easy to see O’Keeffe developing—and revising—her artistic vision. To her, the spaces between shapes on the canvas became as important as the shapes and colors themselves. Here’s what she said about her painting, “Pelvis with the Moon,” pictured above:

“I was most interested in the holes in the bones—what I saw through them—particularly the blue from holding them up in the sun against the sky…they were most wonderful against the Blue—that Blue that will always be there as it is now after all man’s destruction is finished.”

Think about “the holes in the bones.” That’s what we want to do when we revise a novel. We want to look at the structure, of course—the bones—to “see” the book’s shape. But we must also see through the holes between the bones to understand the meaning behind the scenes and characters we’ve created, if we’re going to build a compelling, 3D fictional world.

Here are four easy revision strategies to help you do that:

1. Write the Book Jacket Copy. You have probably already written an outline. (If you haven’t, now’s the time.) Now try writing some punchy book jacket copy. Wrestling with this will help you see the book’s essence more clearly (which will help readers, agents, and editors see it, too.) What is your book really about? Keep that short, punchy summary in mind as you rewrite.

2. Change the Point of View. Maybe your book is in third person. If so, maybe you’re too emotionally distant from the characters. Try changing the book to first person. (If nothing else, this will help you weed out all of the “she thought” and “he wondered” sorts of static phrases.) Or, if your book is in first person, maybe there aren’t enough tactile descriptions or suitable action. Rewrite the book in third person and see how it changes things. Finally, try rewriting your book from a totally different character’s point of view.

3. Read It Aloud. This takes a while. But reading a book aloud will help you catch all sorts of “puffy” phrases, as Stephen King calls them, and will show you how to revise the dialogue so that it sounds more true to character—and to the reader.

4. Start Your Book in a Different Chapter. Like most writers, when I begin a novel, it’s almost always too soon in the action. There is probably a better scene to start with, one with more emotion, and impact. You can catch up on the earlier part of the book with a few flashbacks—or you may find you don’t need that stuff at all, because the pertinent information will be expressed by your character’s actions or dialogue later on, after the reader is hooked.

5. Keep Only Key Scenes. Examine each individual scene. Is it really necessary? If it doesn’t advance the plot, create a “fatty file” on your computer and stash those unnecessary bits of the book there. Maybe you’ll need them, maybe not. But trust your reader to infer and understand lots of what’s going on with fewer scenes.

That’s it! Now get revising, and let me know how it goes.

Buying Books as Holiday Gifts? 5 Quickie Reviews for Last-Minute Shoppers

By Holly Robinson 2 Comments

As a fiction writer, I’m normally reluctant to review other people’s novels. I know how hard the whole process of getting published is, from confronting that first blank page through editing, publication, and marketing. So basically I want to pop a bottle of fizzy for ANY writer who makes it to the finish line. But if you’re buying books as gifts or getaways for yourself and need ideas, here are 5 quickie reviews to inspire you:

News of the World, by Paulette Jiles

Category: historical fiction, literary fiction

By far the best book I’ve read this past year, News of the World is, on the surface, a simple adventure story along the lines of True Grit: a cranky ex-Civil War soldier is charged with bringing a young orphan girl from Witchita Falls to San Antonio after the girl has spent most of her young life as a captive of Native Americans. The journey is rife with all sorts of juicy difficulties, from bandits to suspicious townspeople in the places they stop. But what I loved most about this book, besides the beautifully understated writing that somehow amplifies the action, was the relationship that developed between the reluctant captive and Captain Kidd. I won’t lie: I cried buckets at the end of this book. People who love adventure stories, gorgeous writing, and historical fiction will be fans.

Bring Her Home, by David Bell

Category: thriller

David Bell is clearly inspired by Harlan Coben, that juggernaut of a thriller-maker. Like Coben, Bell writes about everyday characters caught up in situations beyond their control who generally make things worse by getting involved where they shouldn’t. (It’s the adult version of those horror movies where you scream at the kids, “Don’t go down in the basement alone, for Pete’s sake. What are you, an idiot?”) In this case, Bell’s hero is Bill Price, whose wife died of a fall a year before. When the book opens, Price’s teen daughter has gone missing and everyone is searching for her. Naturally, dark secrets emerge about what the girl might—or might not—have been doing, and about Price’s own marriage. The problem I have with this particular book is that the coincidences mount up until again you’re yelling, “Oh, come on!” and the main characters themselves are downright thick in the head. I mean, really, we’re supposed to believe that Bell doesn’t recognize the girl in the hospital? (I won’t say more to avoid spoiling the plot.). However, there is a certain propulsive energy to Bell’s writing—he has that Dan Brown knack for creating deliberate cliff-hanger endings to chapters–that kept me turning the pages. This is a perfect gift for people who like to read in bathtubs, on airplanes, or on the beach: not too taxing, but pretty entertaining.

Woman No. 17, by Edan Lepucki

Category: literary fiction

The writing in this novel absolutely sings. The images are creative, the characters are unique, and the Los Angeles setting is very Raymond Chandler-noirish. The plot, too, is arresting: a young artist, S, is hired as a nanny for a woman in the Hollywood Hills named Lady Daniels. There are, of course, secrets in the pasts of both women, and those emerge as the women become entwined in various creepy ass ways, especially after S becomes involved with Lady S’s older (and mute) teenage son. Some readers might take exception to the fact that all of the characters in this novel are, to some degree, unlikable and self-absorbed. This didn’t bother me. I love a good flawed character. But give this book only to people who are ready to read about characters who are probably far out of their comfort zones.

The Birdwatcher, by William Shaw

Category: literary mystery

Okay, I won’t lie: this book has a few flaws, but I absolutely adored it, simply because I am a huge fan of those British mystery series set in foggy coastal places, like Hinterland and Shetland. In this novel, the main character, William South, is a detective and avid birder. When one of his neighbors is knocked off, it turns out that South has some connections to that guy from his past—and those connections might tie South to a crime he may or may not have committed as a troubled youth. The mystery is finely paced by British standards, which means it is not that rip-roaring pace we’re used to in American mysteries, but the character development is so much deeper that your patience will be well rewarded. This book is perfect for people on your list who love mystery novels with lots of atmosphere.

The Captain’s Daughter, by Meg Mitchell Moore

Category: women’s fiction, literary fiction

If you have women on your gift list who are fans of Elin Hilderbrand, they’re going to love Meg Mitchell Moore. In The Captain’s Daughter, Moore has written a lovely, and emotional story of Eliza, who grows up in a small town in Maine, the daughter of a lobsterman, who ends up making it into an Ivy League college and marrying well enough to be living the posh country club life. When her father falls ill, she travels back to Maine to take care of him and figure out how she got to where she is at this moment in life, as a mother and wife whose marriage is suffering. This may sound like a typical women’s fiction plot, but Moore is a gifted writer whose characters always surprise you. She even has a soft spot for the usual rich bitches that populate novels like these, and nobody writes better about parenting. If you don’t want to spring for a hardcover, buy that person on your list one of Moore’s other novels, now in paperback—I loved The Arrivals and The Admissions. All of her novels have that same exquisite writing, generously optimistic spirit, and spots of high humor that make you feel like maybe the world isn’t going to hell after all.