Blogfest 2009

People routinely ask, “Is it difficult to get a book published?” Not at all, if you follow these 5 easy steps!

1. Come up with something brilliant. Ideally, a brilliant book. But if you come up with a killer marketing concept or catchy title then your book can be mediocre or even a piece of crap and still get published. Bonus tip: Sum up your something great in a single pithy “pitch” sentence, and you’re halfway to your own book signing at Barnes & Noble.
2. Write your book. This involves words, and plenty of ‘em. My upcoming book Swoon, for instance, has 85,516 words. No worries, you get to repeat some. There is also typing required, a lot of sitting. (Bonus tip: Put a cat on your lap to hold you in place.) Having the book “written in your head” will not get it published, unless you can fit a printing press up in there.
3. Get an agent. You’re an artist, not a salesperson. Plus, like most writers you are probably self-deprecating (either that, or a conceited blowhard—writers tend to fall into one of those two categories). But your agent is much more than a salesperson who knows how to do fancy lunch. She will be your champion and convince publishers that you are the best thing since raisin bread. She can also do math, which helps with contract negotiations. Bonus: Your agent will also say kind things to you when you feel needy and insecure (but only go to her with needy and insecure feelings about your work, not when some boy doesn’t call).
4. Think positive! Envision your literary success. See your literary success as a very delicious but nonetheless healthy cupcake that regenerates itself as soon as you’ve finished eating it. Or something. Also, tell yourself empowering affirmations about how amazing you and your book are. Out loud. To yourself and in the middle of conversations with other people. (Disclosure: This above philosophy is borrowed from a book I never read, but it was a huge bestseller so you know it works!)
5. Be patient. You might not get your first book published. I’m about one for two and a half (one book published for every two and a half books stabbed at). This is fine; this is good. The more you write, the better you become. By the time you are blind and senile, you will be brilliant and very, very published—and by then you won’t even care.

The recent historic presidential campaign made writers (and readers) nervous, since one of the candidates apparently favored the banning of books. Quite a chill along the collective spine, that. My upcoming novel Swoon is the sort of book to get a lot of people wringing their hands and clutching their pearls and stomping their feet. How would I feel if banned? I’d feel…

* Confused They’re banning books? Books?! But wars are okay?
* Pissed They’re banning books? Books?! But wars are okay?
* Hungry Since writing books is not an especially stable way to earn a living, on a practical level, if Swoon were banned I’d be hard-pressed to buy groceries. And I like groceries.
* Proud The main reason for writing a book (besides groceries) is to generate a reaction—incite thinking and arouse feeling. For Swoon to be banned, it would have to be pretty successful at that.
* Sad If Swoon got banned it would mean people missed the point—that plain and simple, at its core, Swoon is about love. And if they’re going to ban love, they might as well ban life.

How could I not address “stuff like sex scenes” here at Blogfest ’09, since some would say my new novel Swoon is about sex. I would say it’s about love. Oh, also betrayal and revenge and possession and rage and bliss and obsession; a boy, a girl, another girl, a small town, a big mystery, a ghost, a golem. And, all right, fine, sex. Straight sex, gay sex, predatory sex, scandalous sex, sex as a weapon, a trap, a drug, a quagmire, and mm-hmm good old delirious, incendiary sexy sex.

In life I am a big proponent of sex. Like the opposable thumb and the cerebrum, all those incredibly sensitive nerve endings “down there” (and elsewhere) are part of our birthright as human beings. Sex is as much “us” as holding a fork or composing a sonnet. We’re the only species who can “mate” face-to-face. And since people sex (as opposed to, I don’t know, worm sex) is so immensely pleasurable it must have been intended for recreation as well as procreation. Thanks, God!

That’s my view on sex in life. As to books aimed at the “young adult” audience—ought sexual content require a disclaimer, the literary equivalent of “you cannot ride this ride unless you are this tall”? I think not. If you’re interested in sex, you’re interested in sex, whether you’re thirteen or eighty-three. No one tells you “You’re too young for math!” or “You’ll understand music when you’re older.”

Yet sex (along with that nifty thumb and mighty brain) is huge. Being able to hold a fork, a pencil, a paintbrush, a gun, a blowtorch, a scalpel, a guitar pick, et cetera is huge! Being able to compose a sonnet, an argument, a resume, a rhapsody, an idea, an ism, a sentence, a thought is huge! Sex—the same. A given, but a gift. A right, but a treasure. You can sit around with your opposable thumb lodged firmly up your rectum or you could use it to write your magnum opus. Point being: Let’s not squander our gifts.

Hence, regarding sex and the teenage reader, I tend to make a huge deal of it. Sex ought not be “gratuitous” (damn, I swore I wasn’t gonna use that word) in literature because it ought not be “gratuitous” (again! double-damn!) in life. Even if we leave love out of the picture for the moment (since that’s a whole other blog), sex between Homo sapiens—in reality or on the page—ought be part of the glorious celebration of being human beings.

To that I say yes. Yes, yes, yes, oh yes!

Ever see that Wes Craven classic, The People Under The Stairs? Sometimes I wish I had people under the stairs, as opposed to inside my head. People are heavy, and I carry mine everyplace, all the time. Where they come from I don’t know; they’re just there, jabbering away, jockeying for position, clamoring for attention. They’ve all got stories and have picked me to tell them. Basically, I’m a typist.

They arrive fully formed, only some I get to know all at once, while others are more reticent. One will be in a big rush to tell his story—and his secrets. Another will wait until he’s got me reeled in, good and well seduced, so that he knows no matter how bad the secret is I’ll be a sucker for it.

My first novel was about this rock band, 6X. A four piece. Each member had a voice, his or her own version of what went down. If you’ve ever been in a rock band, you know how it is. But do you know what it’s like to have a rock band inside your head? Loud.

Swoon, the novel I have coming out in May, is a different kind of story, and it was told to me more quietly. In almost whisper. The narrator of Swoon is its heroine, but it’s the hero who took up the most headspace. He’d dictate my dreams at night, point out funny things while we walked along the street. His logic, his way of looking at the world, surprised and illuminated me. And his needs, intense and often conflicting, became my own. I’ve never known anyone like him before or since, and even though his story’s told he’s still with me—we have this bittersweet bantering thing going on.

His name is Sinclair Youngblood Powers. Call him Sin. Should you come to Swoon, should you meet him, chances are he’ll get inside your head, too. Among other places.

Truly, I shouldn’t bitch about the people inside my head, since occasionally they’re people like Sin. That beautiful, that intense, with such an incredible story. Plus, I wind up with my name on a book, and I don’t have to share the royalty check with anyone. All they want, the people inside my head, is to be told.

TNR doesn’t really qualify as a hobby. Nor do the words “passion” or “calling” seem right. Let’s just say it’s something I do. TNR stands for Trap Neuter Return, and it’s proven to be the only humane and effective solution to the feral cat overpopulation crisis that exists worldwide. Surely you’ve seen one of these feral (or free-roaming, or “stray”) cats—the kind of cat that stares you down but will not permit you to pet or even approach him. Figures on the feral population are sketchy (ferals being too busy starving to fill out census forms), but one conservative estimate puts the number at ten million in the continental United States alone.

I first became involved in TNR when a feline family—a mama and four itty-bitty baby kittens—moved into my backyard. I thought I’d befriend the bunch and find homes for them. In a word: ha! It became apparent that these itty-bitty babies were miniature Freddy Kreugers with double the slice-and-dice ability. That’s when I learned about TNR. The process involves Trapping the cat (there is tuna involved), having him Neutered (ending the cycle of ceaseless reproduction) and Releasing him back to his natural habitat (i.e., my backyard).

Here’s the catch: There’s a letter missing letter from TNR. It’s C—for Care, since once you accomplish the T, the N, and the R, the fun has just begun. That’s right, you’re now duty bound to take care of the cat(s) for as long as you both shall live. It’s kind of like having pets who don’t particularly care for you. Did I say fun?

Actually, it is. Sort of. And funny (cats! who needs Cartoon Network?). And rewarding. Since I know that by TNR-ing just a few, I’ve kept many, many unwanted felines from being born and dropping dead after brief, difficult lives. (Cause of death? Death by SUV, death by slavering pit bull, death by hypothermia…)

My experiences in TNR were so extraordinary I was compelled to write a whole nonfiction book about it called An Unlikely Cat Lady: Feral Adventures in the Backyard Jungle. But I’m not taking advantage of Blogfest ’09 to pimp that book (it’s Swoon I’m pimping now, so prepare to swoon, y’all!). I do, however, take every opportunity to nag people about neutering their cats (and other friends with fur…tropical fish I’m not worried about) so that their pets don’t accidentally become pregnant. Animals are the only ones entitled to the “it just happened!” excuse.

To learn more about helping feral felines, plug Trap Neuter Return into your search engine of choice. I’d blog more about it, but I’ve got cats to feed…