The New Place

There's no trace of me...

The thing that people don't tell you about your early 20s is that you become an expert at being a ghost. You move into an apartment or dorm, put down a security deposit, and then a few months later, you remove every trace of you. Hair is taken out of the bathtub, that spot on the floor is buffered out, the piles of clothes get packed away in your car. Everything you brought in here, is taken out.

By the time you take the pictures of where you'd just inhabited (just in case your sketchy landlord tries to take you to court), your essence has already been Cloroxed out. You no longer exist here. But if walls have memories, your ghost will haunt this dwelling place. I hope my ghost haunts the places I've been, because for a time I've fallen in love with each place I inhabited.

I've mentioned I'm messy, right?
This is my 'living room'

I told you guys awhile back that I moved away from the crazy neighbors, but I haven't showed you the new place, or told you much about it.

Probably because I'm still going through an adjustment period. Probably, also, because I no longer have wifi at this new place so I sit in the Young Adult section of the local library, hoping that the voices of the kick-ass authors around me will help muse me. (So far it's been working, I think.) This means the blogs you read are usually posted a week in advance now (trying to utilize my time, you know).

Well, Baxter and I live in Poland, Maine now. We live with an older woman, her son, his wife/finance/girlfriend (I'm not sure which so fill in your own blanks), and their son. (That's right, three generations in one house, and me and Baxter.)

Because I'm neurotic and freaked out when they started eating my food, they gave me a mini-fridge to put downstairs (it's the black box on the floor in the picture below). I'm now like a vampire; dwelling in the basement, getting no sunlight. I'm awake at night, mornings are still awful, and I'm still a horrible roommate. To be proactive, I'm trying to keep my head low and just hang out downstairs or go running. If I'm not around you can't fight with me, right?

Look, over there on the left. There's a bed.
Not an air mattress! 

The drive is significantly less to work, so that's nice. They also let Baxter out to pee while I work long shifts, so that's a huge help, too. But my anxiety level has increased substantially. It turns out, I don't like to talk as much as I think I do. Sure, I've been calling my sister for hours every day to chat but it's not talking. I don't like the superficial, "How's your day? How was work/school/etc?" I don't like answering the same thing countless times, "Oh, you know, I hate my job."

It taxes my energy level, and I retreat to the basement to be antisocial. Tell me about important things; politics, the fact the Shell broke the ice in the Arctic and is now helping destroy the world, religion, changing the world...Don't ask me about my day, when it's the same as yesterday.

I know at some point I'll be moving again. I don't know where (especially since I didn't get into TFA), and I don't know when. But at some point, I would like to live on my own again. In the meantime, it's nice to know that while a million things keep changing...

...Some things stay the same

**Note**
If you're a Twitter follower, I said that I was blogging today about Harry Potter. Sadly, the library I'm at doesn't seem to have any of the books, and I like to have pictures on the blog, AND my sister had some issues with getting her picture to me. Stay tuned, the blog post will happen. Sorry if that's what you were expecting today.

Sitting The Bench

This is my excited face

So there I was.

Until my friend, Swaney, convinced me to try out for the soccer team, I figured my life was complete without soccer. Then one day after gym class, she came up to me, and suggested trying out. When I told her I've never played before, she told me it didn't matter, I could run. Sure enough, I went to try outs, and was on the JV team.

The only picture I could find
of Swaney (black) and me (salmon)

It was my freshmen year of high school, my very first game. That glorious spring day, I was sitting on the bench, when the ref blew the whistle and the girls on both teams launched into motion. They ran around on the field, people around me hollered things I didn't understand. I only knew to kick the ball    --> that way, down the field.

"Schmidt," my coach yelled after about five minutes.

"Yea?"

"You're in, sub (enter some player's name, here)."

This was it, the moment I'd waited for, my moment to shine. I jogged to the half-field line like my shin guards didn't stink, totally ready to pull a teammate out and take her spot.  I get to play, I get to play! I was like a puppy with a tennis ball being waved in front of its face.

And then I stood there.

And watched all the girls run, and move, and run and move. The ball bounced back and forth, between players, teams. Girls took hits in the chest, head, thigh, with amazing control. I...was still working on that aspect of the game.

One of our players passed the ball back to another girl on our team. Wait, we're supposed to have strategy here? Not just kick the ball? Suddenly everything I'd been trained to do for the last month or so, was wrong.

I left the mid-field line before the refs could sub me in. "Hey coach?" I asked.

She looked at me, surprised that I was still standing there, "What's up?"

"So...I've never actually played soccer before, and this is my first game. Is it okay if I sit for a little bit longer until I'm ready to go in?" I asked.

She chuckled, "Yea, I'll ask you again in a bit."

I reclaimed my seat on the bench with my other teammates giving me questioning looks. "I'm not ready," I told them.

A few minutes passed, I watched the girls, the way they moved with the ball, they way they played off of one another like an actual team. The game seeped into my veins and ignited something like passion.

"Schmidt?" my coach called. "You ready yet?"

"Yes!"

I ran again to the line, subbed out a player, and entered my first game. The puppy and tennis ball feeling never left me. I ran fast, and I ran hard, and I stole the ball...more than once.

I'm pretty sure we lost that first game, but I didn't care because I was ready to play. After that day, I started every game. I was no longer a bench warmer, and all because I waited until I actually was ready to play.

So, what does this have to do with writing?

It's simple.

Those of us who are unpublished, and un-repped, we are the bench warmers. We're watching the game go back and forth Hey did you see so-and-so just got a deal? They're being published in May 2014, Omg, Omg, Omg.

We're also the coaches who send our star player (our novel) out to play when it's its first time in the game. The agents are the voice in the backs of our heads saying, "You're not quite ready yet," instead of saying, "No, you're not good enough." And so after several moments of panic, and mild depression, we resume editing.

We get scared, we sit down, we keep the bench warm.

But when we're ready, when our star player is ready, maybe we won't rock that first game, but hey, at least we'll know how to play.

Moral: Keep editing, keep pushing. Don't give up. You're not getting rejected, you're being told to sit down for a few more minutes.

Also, stop by tomorrow for more high school stories thanks to the blog hop :)

Jumping The Gun

I jumped the gun to my deadline and submitted my first query letter today to Vickie Motter of Andrea Hurst Literary Management. I'm terrified and shaking (which could be because I'm starving...). On Tuesday the next round of query letters will go out.

All agents are interested in paranormal romance or magical realism (and mine is kind of a cross breed, oh, and throw some revenge romance in there!). I feel like all of them would like The Dying Process (which has been re-named from The Immortal, as well as Memories of an Immortal Heart).

I would love to tell them (or anyone else) how much this story has saved me...it helped me through Kellie's death, the incredible feelings of loss and confusion that to this day resurface...through Alex's betrayal...While it is completely fiction (clearly, I'm human) there are pieces of me that were poured into this work.

With no further monologuing (not sure if I spelled that right, and I currently don't have spell check...) here is my query letter:

Dear Agent (Don't worry, I actually used their names for this),

He’s dead, and really that’s the only thing that matters to her. In the young adult novel, The Dying Process, which is just over 67,000 words, the unnamed narrator falls in love with an also unnamed young man who is murdered much too soon. No one else believes his death was deliberate, not even his family. Through their minimal time together, he tried teaching her to let her explosive anger pass, but it refuses to leave her. He was the only thing that pacified her. Now he’s gone and she becomes overwhelmed with raw emotions of loss, helplessness, and vengeance.

The lack of names plays into the ending of the mixed paranormal-revenge romance and magical realism based novel. Set in a dystopic world where all ice caps have melted and the Earth is in ruin, the immortal narrator is not a vampire, werewolf, angel, or zombie; she simply has not died. Unlike the typical "male is immortal and female is in danger" love story, the girl is the one with the quirk and the male love interest is breakable. She is a strong, angry protagonist who responds via emotion. The story also dances around the question, is she actually immortal, or is it the loss she's encountered that makes her feel so ancient? Is she actually capable of dying?
 
My publication history includes an essay in Authors of Tomorrow, and several short stories and poems published sequentially in the 2007-2010 editions of Zephyr, the University of New England’s literary magazine. I am also a regular attendee of the AWP Conferences. This is my first young adult novel and this is a simultaneous submission.

Thank you very much for your time and consideration,




Lynne Schmidtsschmidt1026@gmail.com

Patience

I'm not a patient girl. I never have been. I eat undercooked rice because it takes too long for the water to boil. I don't like making meals because the prep time is extensive. Usually I eat freezer ready meals, which magically after two minutes in the microwave still have chunks of ice on them. (As long as the chicken feels/tastes cooked, I don't usually go through round two of a microwave...I will most likely contract some form of food poisoning soon). I skim boring parts of books. If a movie doesn't take off quick enough, I do something else (like fall asleep). If I'm chatting with people and they take too long to respond, I get bored and walk away from the computer. (You get the idea.)


So, right now, my novel is completely written. Honestly, it has been since high school, and I've been editing it ever since. It has had a major facial reconstruction, and idea construction. To me, the ending finally makes sense. But, parts are still not as strong as I'd like them to be. So I've been going through, tearing apart pages and chapters, and making it stronger. I've also had the help of the wonderful Tammy Henry, Laura Schmidt, Alyssa Wells Midler, and Elizabeth Henry. Though being torn to shreds hurts...it helps to know "I can't engage with this character," and know I'm doing something wrong. Because of this editorial statement, the entire introduction and first chapter were re-done so that the reader has a better grasp of who this woman is. 


I've found people I want to submit to (as previously stated). The one woman I want to submit to more than anything wants a short and concise query letter. She wants paranormal romance. She wants something different...and I think I'd be a good fit for her. But, she also wants a very polished manuscript....Well, up to chapter ten or so is polished....?


Right now I have to keep my query letter in the FINISHED folder of my external hard-drive. I take it out and send to people to see what they think. I've just received word from a PUBLISHED AUTHOR, Zu Vincent, that she is willing to read said letter and give suggestions. (I met her last year at the AWP conference.) She and I will both be attending the 2011 conference in Washington D.C., and I'm hoping to be able to attend her panel. Either way, it is taking everything I have in me not to just balls out and type said agent's e-mail address into the "Send" tab, and blow my shot.


But kids, it takes patience. You have to be PERFECT. Your work has to be PERFECT. It pays to be patient, to wait it out, to continue editing. So, I have set a deadline: February 15th. Why? Because I fucking HATE Valentine's Day, and February, so this will give me something to look forward to. Plus, because there is a deadline, the possibility isn't stretching into the abyss, there is a set time frame I am forcing myself to work under. If my editors haven't finished, then I'm saying screw them and submitting anyway. I feel like my query letter is strong enough, I feel like the first three chapters are strong enough. 


But, I said I would wait, and so I will.