Friday, April 30, 2010

It's pitching season

In truth, it is ALWAYS pitching season. But I have a certain list of agents in my sights and Heritage Fields is primed and ready. There is a narrow window of time though before everyone loses themselves in summer.

You can write a stellar query worthy of a bestseller but it won't matter if the agent or editor has tanning lotion in hand and sunglasses perched atop his or her head. If they are already immersed in their "vaca", you have missed the boat.

Meanwhile I am outlining the next book project. The new idea is a rather over-the-top genre story. In my prior efforts, I wanted to be so serious about the story. That kind of kills the fun of reading.

Don't worry, I'm not trying to cash in on certain trends. Such a move offers only short-term gains. You can emulate others only so much before the audience shrugs and returns to the original.

Every writer-I hope-wants to define their own market rather than let it dictate what they produce. That is more than a tall order when you are unpublished.

If I had my druthers, I'd attract readers who don't like ghouls, vampires and ghosts along with the hardcore genre fans.

Believe me, I appreciate the harsh litmus test agents and editors must use when approached by mobs of unknowns. As a journalist I see scores of press releases and take even more phone calls from folks trying to convince me their story is worth putting in print.

I am thinking about getting a ticket to a simulcast of this year's Nebula Awards . This is like the Oscars for the fantasy and science fiction publishing world. The actual event is in Florida, the simulcast is in Manhattan. I consider this an opportunity engage in the market and to put oneself in front of industry people. Who knows, get the ear of the right person and you might find yourself in the running in the future. Or not. Anyway, the Nebula Awards are in two weeks so I must decide quickly.

No comments:

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away