Apple-Obsessed Author Fella

Tag: writing (page 33 of 33)

Stuff About Writing

Why Your Novel Won’t Get Published

Quit Lookin' At Me, Goat

You know the word “scapegoat,” right? Are you aware of the origins?

It’s like this: in what we’ll just call “Bible Times,” the community would heap all their sins upon a goat. The sins were metaphorical; the goat was not. Then they would kick that goat in the ass and force him into the desert, where presumably he’d either a) get into crazy adventures with the Devil and a talking cactus or (more likely) b) die and be eaten by flies. Either way, that goat carried your sins away from town. When the goat expired, so did all your terrible actions.

Your novel is kinda the opposite of that pathetic goat: onto it you heap not your sins, but your greatest hopes and dreams. “One day, you’ll be a bestseller,” you whisper to the goat as you duct-tape your manuscript to his back. Then you put him in the elevator and send him into the Publishing Wilderness, where he will either a) randomly wander into the proper agent or editor office and get your book published or (more likely) b) die and be eaten by flies.

Brutal honesty time:

That novel of yours isn’t likely to get published. The numbers just aren’t in your favor. Last I did a sweep of the Internet, it was home to 500,000,000 writers. Once you remove the wanna-be dilettantes, you still end up with 1,000,000 left. And they’re all fighting to have their manuscripts published.

You gotta maximize your chances of putting a kick-ass book into the ecosystem where it bites, kicks, shivs and garrotes any other novel that gets in its way. One way to do that is to identify the many pitfalls that await you, your book, and its goat.

Wanna know why your novel won’t get published? (Or, alternately, won’t get an agent?)

Ten reasons. Here we go.

1. Them Brownies Ain’t Done Baking

Brownies need long enough in the oven, or the middle ends up soft, gooshy, and still uncooked. Your novel might suffer from that problem: you sadly didn’t do enough with it. Maybe it needs another draft. Maybe it needs a strong copy-edit. Could be that it will benefit from some challenging readers or from a down-to-earth writer’s group. Whatever the case, the novel just isn’t “there yet.”

Make sure you’re spending enough time and effort on that sucker before you loose it into the world.

2. Your Training Wheels Are Still Attached

Sometimes the problem isn’t the novel — the problem is you. Ever hear the term “starter novel?” It means that this is your first book and it implies that this first book just isn’t a fully-formed novel. It was a learning process. It was an experiment. The training wheels are still squeaking and rattling.

Hey, listen, I wrote five novels before I got an agent for the sixth. Those first four novels were crap, the fifth almost got me an agent, and the sixth really sealed the deal. I learned as I wrote. I grew as a writer. I kicked the training wheels off. Now I’m on a mad Huffy BMX bike. Or maybe a Vespa scooter.

That’s right. I said it. A Vespa. Mmmm. I know I’m sexy.

Wait, what? I dunno. Point is, you still have work to do as a writer. Let this novel be a stepping stool to other, better books. Is it guaranteed that your first novel is a stinker? No. But I’d call it a reasonable chance, so it’s best to get some informed opinions before you pin your publishing dreams to it.

3. You’re Allergic To Following Instructions (AKA You Suffer From “The Special Snowflake” Conundrum)

When you submit a novel, you are beholden to a number of instructions supplied by the agent or the editor. “Send the first five pages and a query letter; also include a deed signing over the soul (but not body) of your first-born child. Please include an SASE as well as a feather from a peacock made of molten pewter.”

Writers, for whatever reason, think they’re immune to such instruction. As if it’s some kind of test. “Oh, they don’t mean me. My novel is sublime. It transcends such petty nitpickery. Lesser authors will be caught in the netting of micromanagement while I — champion of all writer-kind! — send them a novel written across 40,000 Post-It notes and shoved into the digestive tract of this here billy goat.”

You are not immune. Follow the fucking instructions. You are not a special snowflake. Do what they ask. Do so politely. Shut up about how they’re trying to oppress you and just dance the dance.

4. Novel’s Great, But The Query Letter Sucks Eggs

You’ve written a 90,000 word novel. And now you have to condense it down into 250 words.

Trust me, it’s hard. I know. It’s like putting on 200 lbs but you still have to fit into your Speedo bathing suit: it feels like you’re cramming so much into so little.

Sure, sure, it isn’t fair. Neither is a 40-hour work-week. Go home and cry in your mother’s vagina. You want to sell that book, that means you have to put together a good query. I don’t know that you need to put together a great query — you just need to convince them to take a peek at your beast. And I don’t mean that in a creepy, sexy way, either: the query is there to convince them to take it to the next level and request a full manuscript. Then your book can sell itself, as you had intended.

If you want to know how I wrote my query letter, check out:

The Pitch Is A Bitch (But Don’t Fear The Query).”

5. You’re A Dick

Maybe your novel is the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas, the canine’s testicles (as they say in England).

Fact remains, if you’re just a big ol’ douchey dickface, nobody’s going to want to touch you with a ten foot pole. This is an industry of people. You’re selling your novel, but your novel won’t even get in the door if you can’t muster cursory politeness and expected tact. Are you a whiny, complainy, ego-driven Negative Nancy? Not a good sign. If the author is more trouble than the novel is worth, well…

*poop noise*

So sorry. No consolation prize. Buh-bye.

Be nice. Put a good face out there. You don’t need to be bland or boring or Suzy Sunshine all the time.

Just don’t be a dick.

6. What Genre Is That, Again?

Ask yourself this: “Where will this go in the bookstore? In what section? On what shelf?” If that has no clear answer, then you’re throwing up a red flag. “It’s horror paranormal romance mystery, with sci-fi elements. Oh, and it also has recipes!” Hey, I think that’s an awesome and brave experiment and maybe you’ll have some luck with it. But you have to recognize that, for better or for worse, publishing is in shaky straits right now and it’s running a little scared. Something that doesn’t fit in any box is problematic — how do you market something whose market is uncertain? If you can’t do it, neither can they.

7. Deja Vu

“And then Neo sticks his lightsaber into the Eye of Mordor. Popeye kisses Olive. The End.”

Your work is derivative.

Maybe you didn’t mean for it to be, but it is. Or maybe you thought it was some kind of “homage.” Either way, an agent is going to look at it and say, “Seen it, done that, don’t need it, need a nap.”

You might be asking, “Wait, I’m supposed to stay inside the box but also think outside the box?”

And now you know why it’s so hard to get a book published.

Yes. We want comfort and familiarity without redundancy.

Shepherding a novel to publication is like threading a needle. Blind. On a moving train. While you’re being attacked by monkeys with sticks. Good times.

8. The Book Is Not, How You Say, “Commercially Viable?”

Something about the book is just striking the, “I don’t know if this will sell” bell. Maybe “vampire koalas” aren’t hot this year. Maybe the book-buying public has, in polls, revealed a certain discomfort with novels that prominently feature “cat abortions” as a plot point.

This is a tough one (says the author who perhaps knows it intimately).

Maybe your book is in a niche. A niche is nice in that it has an audience, but its audience may be too small to accommodate publication — which makes the niche a bad place to be.

Either way, the best advice is, be ready to make changes. Changes that will mold the book into something that is deemed attractive to a money-wielding audience.

9. Sometimes, Even The Brightest Spark Won’t Catch Fire

You might have a glorious masterpiece in your hands and yet… bzzt. Nothing. You know it’s awesome. Everybody else knows its awesome. And yet for some reason, it just isn’t happening.

What can you do about it?

*blank stare*

I really don’t know. You probably have two courses of action:

1) Be patient. Eventually an editor will get mauled by a tiger or something and then you can try again.

2) Self-publish. The publishing world doesn’t know your novel’s glory, so you must become its pimp.

(Check out, “Should I Self-Publish? A Motherfucking Checklist.”)

10. Unfortunately, You’re A Deluded, Talentless Hack

Out of the 500,000,000 writers out there, do you honestly believe that they’re all top notch penmonkeys? Mmmyeah. No. Some of them are completely in love with the stink of their own word-dumpsters, just huffing their foul aromas, getting high on inelegance and ineptitude.

Thing is, if you’re that guy, you’re probably never going to not be that guy. It’s possible that, once you recognize the illusion you may shatter it as if it were a distorting funhouse mirror, but that won’t do anything for the “talentless” portion of our competition. Some people just aren’t meant to be writers no matter how much they want to be that thing. Reality is a cold bucket of water.

Of course, realistically, if you’re deluded, then you’re probably not even reading this post, are you? And if you are, you’re not going to take any of my advice — not one lick of it. Which is okay, because hey, maybe I’m a deluded, talentless hack, too.

Anyway, looking to hear from you kids out there in the audience. Writers, editors, agents: why aren’t novels getting published? I’m sure I missed something. Shout it out.

Why Are Dead Birds Falling From The Sky? (Hint: It’s Totally My Fault)

Dude, What?

Dear Publishers Of Books:

You may have noticed that, around the world, birds are dropping out of the sky like frozen poop from an airplane bathroom. These dead birds are found all over the map — Arkansas, Kentucky, Georgia, Italy, Sweden — and many suspect these instances will increase as the coming Hellpocalypse of Cthulhu’s awakening draws closer. You will note, of course, that the first birds to go were several thousand (also calculated as “one fuck-ton”) of dead red-wing blackbirds in Arkansas, and days later, more blackbirds took a free-falling dirt-nap in Louisiana. Further, in Sweden, you will see that the birds that perished there were jackdaws — which sounds like a totally made-up bird, but I assure you, is no more made up than the titmouse, boobie, or nuthatch. Jackdaws are in fact a type of crow. Or they are at least “crow-flavored.”

Let’s switch gears for a moment.

You may have also noticed that I am a penmonkey (equal parts “game designer,” “screenwriter,” “alcoholic,” and “novelist”), and it is the latter identifier that should ring a bell, as my novel BLACKBIRDS is out on submission with you fine, friendly folks, and has been for a number of months, now. You may gaze upon a mock cover I did for this novel below:

Mock Up Cover

This novel deals with a cranky, profane psychic character, Miriam Black, who has a very curious way of solving murders before they happen. It is a book very much about death and how we deal with it. It is also funny and contains both sex and blood, and who doesn’t like that? Communists, that’s who.

I have, over the course of many moons, received a cascading series of glowing rejections from your wonderful industry. Editors love the book! They assure me that they would not change a thing. “Huzzah!” I thought, “What good news!” But then I got to the part of the letter where it also says something like, “We love the book and it’s perfect as it is and yet, somehow, mysteriously, we could not convince the army of terminators our sales board that this was a book that would sell more than seven copies. They remain in fact unconvinced that even your mother would buy a copy. Trust us. We called her. We asked her. She shrugged and gave a half-committal ennh, then said something about how you write rude books about rude people and why don’t you write a nice book about a girl who buys a pony? She also reminds you to call her. As we feel that you are a bad son and a wonderful but unsellable author, we have decided to not publish your truly spectacular standout don’t-change-a-thing novel, BLACKBIRDS.”

This is of course a shame, because I feel I am a prime catch. First: I’m dead sexy. (I look hot dressed up as a Barnes and Noble book display.) Second: I am nothing if not loud and irritating, so you can be assured I will market this novel until my fingers are worked to bloody nubs and my tongue explodes. Third: I have that mythical “writer’s platform” thing covered. Fourth: I think I wrote a pretty snazzy book with a flawed-but-lovable murder-solvin’ psychic-havin’ sexy-bein’ character that people seem to really enjoy reading.

You may at this point be asking, “Wasn’t this asshole supposed to answer the mystery of the dead birds?”

I am, and will.

You see, it is not coincidental that the name of my book is BLACKBIRDS and that many of the dead birds are also blackbirds (or, at least, birds that happen to be black of feather). It is also not coincidental that my book is about death and solving murders, and this mystery of the birds also orbits the cheerful, charming subject of death, doom, and gloom. Why is that, you ask?

I’m totally the guy killing all those birds.

Whew. I’m really glad to have that off my chest.

It’s been so hard! Seriously. Go ahead — you try to kill a metric fuck-ton of birds by yourself in order to pimp out your unsold novel. It’s really tough stuff! I have had to shoot fireworks into flocks of grackles, I’ve had to rig up supervillain-esque contraptions that hoses blackbirds down with water before blasting them with the coruscating energy from a secret Nikola Tesla device, I’ve had to break into secret government labs and release toxic Phosgene into the atmosphere. Heck, I’ve even had to pilot an ultra light plane amongst the birds while (with a free-hand) clubbing them all to death with a croquet mallet.

I am, frankly, exhausted.

Unfortunately, the bird deaths will continue as long as my novel remains unsold. This is, of course, regrettable, but I see no other course of action beyond these Blofeld-like tactics.

For every day that my novel goes unsold, I will continue punching, scalding, exploding, electrocuting, poisoning, and tickling birds to death. I have already begun to expand my purview beyond blackbirds and crows — you may have read about the thousands of dead doves in Italy? Yup. That was me. My only regret there was that I could not also manage to spraypaint them all black, y’know, to keep in theme.

Oh well. Next time!

So, while I am pleased to announce that the bird deaths are not in fact a sign of the Apocalypse, they are however the acts of a disgruntled novelist who just wants his book to find a home with a lovely publisher.

Please buy my novel. If not for the awesomeness of the book itself, do it to save the birds of the world. Because I’m totally going to keep killing birds until someone buys this goddamn book.

Thank you for your time. I appreciate any efforts on my behalf. The birds thank you, too.

BLACKBIRDS is represented by super-agent Stacia Decker of the Donald Maass Literary Agency. You may contact her to request that the bird deaths cease make a wonderful offer on my book.

Regards,

Chuck Wendig

P.S. I also have a non-fiction book on pitch called CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY. Please don’t make me kill any monkeys or writers. Unless you want me to kill a few writers? Call me.

P.P.S. Oh, the fish aren’t my fault. It’s possible that you have another grumpy novelist out there who wrote a book called FISHHEADS or some shit, but if you ask me, all the dead fish are a sign of the fucking Apocalypse, so you should probably start praying to your God and building bunkers and what-not.

Drop The Pen, Grab A Hammer: Building The Writer’s Platform

Writing Advice

Ahhh. The writer’s platform.

I first heard the term… what? About three, four years ago? Reading various snidbits of advice, you pick up on that increasingly popular question: “Do you have a platform?”

I thought, oh, shit. No, no I don’t. I didn’t have anything that looked remotely like a platform. So, out in the woods I built a small raised dais. On it I placed a chair. In the chair I placed my ass, and on my lap I rested my novel. Just in case, I wrote a crazy person sign — “I AM NOVELIST WILL WRITE FOR HOOKERS” — and then I waited. Eventually I grew hungry — and further, I grew tired of people throwing their fast food garbage at my head. So I went inside, did a little investigation and lo and behold I was doing it wrong.

Sadly, building a writer’s platform does not involve an actual platform. I know, right? Welcome to Disappointment City, Population: Me.

So it goes.

Let me be clear: I detest the word “platform.” I mean to say, it’s fine when used to literally define something that deserves the term: I don’t froth at the mouth and rip out clods of chest hair anytime I hear the phrase “platform shoes,” for example. But when someone says “writer’s platform,” I cannot help but grind my molars together until I hear the crinkly, crunchy snap as my enamel cracks like punched glass.

Still. As a buzzword, it’s got legs.

And in the bullshit of the buzzword, truth lingers. Let us tease it out with a tickle, shall we?

Define Your Terms, Inkmonkey: What In Tarnation Is A Writer’s Platform?

The metaphor of the writer’s platform is — duh — that you as a writer need to stand on a platform with your megaphone and your lectern, and the stronger the platform is — or is it the higher the platform? — the better off you’re going to be when the time comes to get published because you stand on a solid base above all others and you rule them with an iron fist. Blah blah blah. Snargh. Or something.

Fuck all that right in the blowhole.

Here’s a simple definition:

You are your platform.

Lemme explain. Getting published is the sum of two parts: one, the book, and two, the author that wrote the book. The book matters in the short term: the audience (and by proxy, the publisher) want a good book in hand. The author matters in the long term: everybody wants to get behind an author with some longevity, an author they like, or even better, an author that they love.

The writer’s platform is about you. It’s about putting yourself out there. It’s equal parts “putting on armor” and “taking off all your clothes.” Your platform is how people know you — it’s their perception of you as an author, but even more importantly, of you as a human being.

Your Strongest Platform Is A Book That Doesn’t Suck Moist Open Ass

Go read a gaggle of articles about a writer and his platform and the one thing you won’t see very often is advice talking about your actual book. Here’s the thing: a writer without a platform can still get published if he has a kick-ass book, but a writer with a great platform isn’t likely to get published if his book is better off being dragged out behind the barn and shot in the head.

A shitty book will crush even the most well-constructed platform under a ton of manure.

Let it be said: your primary goal is to write a fucking whopper of a book. The lion’s share of your efforts should go into that which makes you a writer: your writing. Many writers are all about the sound and the fury, but it’s all bark and not a lot of bite. They over-promise and never deliver. Don’t be that asshole. Write the best book of your life, and then go write an even better book.

The book is your currency. You and your platform are just the way to get that book seen.

Now, to be clear, I don’t mean you shouldn’t concentrate at all on getting yourself out there. You can, and should. No false dichotomies here — you can do both. As you’re writing the book you should also be putting yourself into the world as the writer you want people to know and to read. Just remember that the book is king. You are merely the power behind the throne.

A Writer’s Platform Is Made Out Of People

“A writer’s platform: the miracle food of high-energy plankton gathered from the oceans of the world.”

No, wait, that’s Soylent Green, isn’t it?

Still, the point stands: your platform is made out of people. You’ll hear a lot about social media this and writer conference that. Those are tools. Those are means to an end.

People matter. Relationships count. That is no less true today than it was 50, 100, or 1,000 years ago — you don’t want to lone wolf this shit. You are not Author Ronin Without Clan.

Your platform is about connecting with people.

Yes, it’s that simple. It is in part about building audience, but to me there’s a bit of a mind-set tweak in there: building audience puts you at a separation from people, and it’s the same separation suggested by the term “platform.” It sets you both above and apart. “I am Author!” you shout from your dais made of human skulls. “Hear my voice! Read my book! When you’re done reading my book, I’ll also need you to lick my feet! And smite my enemies! And buy my t-shirts and coffee mugs! Do not forget to read this interview with me, for it is filled with the blood of awesome! Raaaaar!”

Ah, but the writer’s platform isn’t all about you.

You shouldn’t stand above and apart. You should stand within.

That sounds like some real Zen Hippie Shit, but your platform isn’t about screaming so the cheap seats can hear it. It’s about connecting. It’s about connecting with people so that you may exploit them and make them dance on your puppet strings and then when you’re done you will wear their flesh like a suit and boil their bones for broth! Whoa, wait, no, where’d that come from? Whoo. Zoinks. I maybe need a Xanax. And a Zantac, because I have heartburn from slurping all this bone broth.

No, seriously, connecting with people is about reciprocal relationships. It’s not even all about I Am Writer, it’s in part about I Am Just A Dude Or Chick Who Is Pretty Cool And You’re Pretty Cool And We Should Talk About Coffee And Bacon And Dreams And Writing. Be a writer, but also, be a person. And don’t be an asshole. Or, rather, don’t be a huge asshole. More on that in another post.

Because Damn, Who Doesn’t Love A Checklist?

Okay, fine, I hear you. You’re saying, “This is a big basket of theory and metaphor, but you’re not giving me any practical information. Dickwipe.” And I’m like, “Dickwipe?” And you’re like, “Yeah, I said it.”

Fair enough.

Practical information. Here goes. Ready?

One: Figure out who you are and who you want to be. You know how you go to college and that’s a time to kind of… if not “reinvent” yourself than to make upgrades to your original design? This is like that. You are transitioning from Regular Human to Author Human. No superiority intrinsic to that, I just mean that now is a good time to slap a new coat of paint on who you want the world to see. Want to know a secret? This should be the best and most interesting face of who you already are. No ruse, no illusion.

It helps, too, to think a little about your authorial mission: ideally, who you are or appear to be matches the books you hope to write. Presuming you’re a confident author with some understanding of your voice, this shouldn’t be too much of a problem. That said, if they’re totally different, you need to navigate that. Do you sanitize and create an illusion? Me, I say be who you are and let the chips fall as they may. The majority of readers won’t know that you’re a foul-mouthed weirdo on the Internet. And when they find out, they probably won’t really give a rat’s right foot.

Two: Get a blog. That blog should not look like a Myspace page or Geocities blog from 1998. No amateur hour shit. Go pro, or go home. Own that blog. Own it from the ground up. Feel free to disagree with me, but I’ll just pull this lever and drop you into the dark churning ocean. No, I don’t have any sharks. I have squid. Little squid with robot brains and laser eyes. Seriously: own your blog and your domain name and create a space. This is your nexus online. Drive traffic here.

Three: Get slathered up in the sweet grease of social media. Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, Tumblr, Goodreads, Forums, Skype, Soup Cans Connected By Cat-5 Cable, whatever.

Four: Remember that the key word of social media is social, which means it’s about people, which means you need to connect and communicate. That means you are not just a salesman of information. You are not just pimp and prostitute. If you act like that, then our hunter-killers will confuse you with a Spam Bot and you will be beheaded on sight by their whirring mouth-saws. BZZZTGGRHHBLLE. Blood everywhere.

Five: Don’t be a huge asshole. Or a giant douche. Be cool. Be funny. Be honest (mostly).

Six: Be consistent. Put yourself out there and stay out there. Communicate with your people frequently. Don’t have to be annoying about it, but don’t drop off the map: connect, and stay connected.

Six-Point-Five: Do not confuse “followers” with “buyers.” Tweets and blog posts are free. Your book will not be. They may buy. They may not. Keep expectations in check.

Seven: Realize that the Internet isn’t everything and that a real world exists. Leave your home. Talk to people. Meet other writers and industry people — your so-called “platform” is as much about audience as it is about connections within the industry. Those people have done it. Listen to them. Extend a hand. Better yet: buy them alcohol. Many writers have built strong platforms out of beer kegs and whiskey bottles. (Alternately, buy them a meal because otherwise they’ll go home to a fridge empty of everything but hobo wine, mustard packets, and month-old Indian food.)

Eight: Go to a conference or three. Meet people who write the kinds of things you write.

Nine: Meet people who aren’t writers or publishers. Break the incestuous little fuck-tangle and meet anybody you can: dock-workers, librarians, artists, bartenders, hookers, and did I mention bartenders?

Ten: Keep writing. Always keep writing.

Caveat, Cuidado, Verboten, Awooga, Awooga

Be advised: nobody is a social media expert. Do not pay anybody anything to help you build your platform. You want to pay somebody, pay an editor. Pay an agent. Pay a cover artist if you’re self-publishing. But you need to handle your own shit. Only you can be the face of you, and it really is as easy as a) finding your voice b) putting that voice out there by connecting with people in and out of the industry.

Further, the platform isn’t a magic bullet. It won’t guarantee sales. It won’t guarantee a publishing deal. It won’t make that dead fish of a book you wrote suddenly come alive and start flopping around on the dock. It is merely a maximization of luck: you won’t get hit by lightning if you don’t stand out in the field.

Your platform can backfire. It can collapse under the weight of your bullshit. If you don’t have a good instinct for dealing with people but you write kick-ass books, then trust me — step off the platform and disappear into the crowd and let the book sell itself. I’ve seen a few upcoming authors who are pretentious jerkoffs or self-righteous blowhards — I know they’re good writers, but their attitude turns me off.

Now Go Forth And Connect

That’s it. Find your voice and use it to talk to people.

And all the while, keep writing.

There you have it: a writer’s platform in a nutshell.

Comments? Questions? Prayer requests? Death threats? Proposals of marriage? Nigerian email scams?

You Are Now Entering The Month Of “What Now?”

You just finished a novel. Like, finish-finished. You wrote it. You edited it. You edited it again. You drank profusely. You gave yourself a 5-Hour-Energy-Drink enema. You cried into your pillow. Then you edited it one last time. And now — big deep breath — you’re done.

Exhale. Release the demons.

And now —

Elation! Freedom! A flock of happy chickadees alighting off the fencerail that is your heart.

But then —

There it is. The book. A brick. A big block of words and dead trees, or a garish white screen of 1s and 0s comprising your asstastic prose. Your gut sinks. Palms sweat. This thing? It might as well be a football helmet filled with diarrhea. It’s got nothing of value to offer to the world. It’s a tangled briar of gibberish. Nobody’s going to want to read it. The best thing they can do with it is to bludgeon Snooki to stop her from writing another novel. Best thing you can do for the book is crawl in a hole and die.

Deep breath again.

In. Out. Ahhhhh.

Unclench thine hindquarters. Stop pinching your nipples: they’ll turn to raisins and fall off. (True story. Where the hell do you think raisins come from? Dead grapes? Don’t believe the lies.)

Calm thyself.

Here’s the problem:

You’re overwhelmed by possibility. You’ve just taken a chompy bite out of your life, chewing off a goodly hunk of months — maybe even years — and then spat that time and effort up in front of you. Hrrrgh-ptoo! This story is important to you. It matters. You want to do the right thing. You want to put it out there. And here it is, done. Ready to rock out with its proverbial you-know-what out. But with that realization comes a tide of triumph coupled with fear (like a fine wine paired with a quivering adrenal gland tumor).

The problem is, you don’t know what’s next.

You’ve asked yourself the question, “What Now?” and you have come up wanting.

That’s okay. Let me help. Let me stroke your hair. Let me whisper secret truths in your ear. I mean, sure, I actually don’t know cat shit from Captain Crunch, but somehow I’ve managed to convince you people that I know what the hell I’m talking about, so we might as well continue the scheme.

November, we talked about writing the book.

December, we talked up editing that sumbitch.

And now, January, it’s time to figure out what to do next.

Welcome to the month of “What Now?”

We’ll talk more about agents and publishing. I’ll chat (maybe tomorrow) a little about an author’s so-called “platform.” You’ll see some posts concentrating on both the writer’s life and the lifecycle of your novel.

For now, I’ll just say:

Stop worrying.

You did good.

But the work ain’t done.

If you have specific questions, feel free to expectorate them into the comments below — otherwise, just sit back and relax. I’ve got the wheel. And a bottle of Tito’s vodka. Let’s roll.