It was such a huge deal that my previous plan, to go to school to become a lawyer, to fight for truth, justice and the American way, flew right out the window.
I wanted that feeling for the rest of my life, where I presented something that I had created from scratch and it was treated it like it was truly special.
Where I was treated like I was truly special.
Since I was a voracious reader at the time, the idea of joining some of my heroes, which, when I was twelve, included such romance icons as Janet Dailey, seemed like the ultimate dream come true. By the time I was fourteen, I completed my first novella, a story titled “My Father and Me,” inspired by Barry Manilow’s song “Ships.” This made the idea of writing for a living even more intoxicating. I regularly created for fun, developing my own soap opera around a randy bunch of Barbies that lived the lives I could only dream of living. (There may or may not have been a character named Ginger, who may or may not have married a character named Steve Perry.)
I had this idea that I could play for a living. I could craft these wonderful stories into books, sell them far and wide and become a huge success, famous of course, but the kind of famous where I could still go to the grocery store without being stopped, photographed or recognized. (The fictional me may or may not have been plagued by the paparazzi.)
I held fast to this dream all the way through my early twenties, when I started to shop around my ever so genius material, only to learn that cracking open the gate to a professional writing career wasn’t quite as easy as I had planned. I thought for sure that I was special enough to make it happen; everyone I had ever shown my work to beforehand had reinforced this belief.
Though it was hard, both to finish a book worthy of representation/publication and finding anyone who was willing to stick their necks out for me to buy (or sell) my work, I held fast to my dream of one day being a professional writer, who could make a living doing what I wanted to do.
That making a living part is the key. Like I told you before, the odds are stacked against both traditionally published and independently published authors, a majority of whom barely make enough to keep themselves stocked in caffeine, liquor and one bullet... just in case... much less enough to pay for groceries, rent or one freaking electric bill. What I dreamed for years on end, to write at my leisure, to produce books that fans clamored for, to travel far and wide to exciting places as part of my glamorous career as a renowned author, is basically a fairy tale for most writers, myself included.
I began to see the cracks in the veneer when I hit my thirties, and I decided, in the dawn of this new millennium, to dip my toe in the shark-infested waters of screenwriting.
The idea had been presented to me in the 1990s by a former agent, who was told again and again that my writing style was more visual and might be better suited to the screen. At the time, I was perfectly content to write romance novels. I thought that was something I could definitely pull off. Writing a screenplay, a hundred or so pages that someone would want to invest millions of dollars to bring to life, was daunting to me.
Basically I didn't believe I could do it.
In 1999, I met my second husband, Steven. He was a total movie buff, who generally saw all new releases when they hit the theater. He had racked up more than 500 points on his AMC card, so much of our courtship was spent inside a darkened theater. This was a new experience for me. From the time my father passed away in 1980, my life had been devoid of frills like this. I grew up in the 1980s without my MTV simply because we couldn't afford cable. Needless to say, I can count the number of movies I saw in the theater in those 29 years on two hands, with several fingers left over.
So, after meeting Steven and living in his world for a bit, I began to embrace the excitement of movies in a whole new way. I loved going to movies on opening night, sharing the experience with total strangers, and somehow always having the experience enhanced as a result.
I told Steven then what the agent had said, and he was totally for it. He had read my stuff beforehand and thought I was talented enough to pull it off, even when I wasn’t so sure. For the next few years, until I wrote my first screenplay in 2002, he was a constant voice in my ear telling me not only could I do it, but that I totally should.
Unbeknownst to him, he was the first person to shatter some of the illusions I harbored about being a professional writer.
He was the one who told me that even if I sold a script to Hollywood, there was a pretty good chance that they would change it from what I wanted. A screenplay is one part of a bigger collaboration, where directors and actors use what is on the page as a guide to the story they want to tell.
In other words, someone else wanted to play with my Barbies, and I wasn’t entirely sure I was comfortable with that. Would they take my beloved characters, like MJ from CHASING THUNDER, and make her some bimbo, when she was supposed to be an icon of feminine badassery?
Hence why it took so long to write my first spec script. There are two basic types of scripts; those you are hired to write and those you write because you have a brilliant story to tell. If you're writing on “spec,” you aren't going to get paid unless you can find someone willing to invest to bring it to life. The odds of selling one are not in your favor. Even a conservative estimate of 50,000 spec scripts written a year only yields a success rate of 50 or so selling each year, and of those, the number shrinks even more how many actually are filmed, much less make it to a theater.
Most screenwriters use their spec scripts as calling cards to get hired for jobs, where producers already have an idea they think is worth investing in, they just need to find the one hungry writer who is willing to work efficiently and well to give them that initial blueprint to follow.
Indeed, this is how it happened for me. By 2005, I had written four spec scripts, one of which would eventually turn into my novel, MY IMMORTAL. I was told by another screenwriter that a director he knew wanted a vampire story they could set in Romania, where this particular director was from. Since I had used a fictional place in my story, I figured we could easily adapt it if need be, so I sent it over. The producer wasn’t that turned on by the Gothic landscape for my tragic love story, but he really loved my main character, a reincarnated vampire who was born with psychic ability.
He asked me instead to write something more urban, something that could be set in Romania, with a similar character. He pitched the idea to me as “Se7en” meets “Interview with a Vampire,” and explained he already had a producer and a studio interested. It was a low-budget affair, but I didn’t care. This was my big break to actually get paid for what I wrote.
I began my research into Romania, Bucharest and vampire lore. Within a relatively short period of time, I had a first draft for this new project, TASTE OF BLOOD, where some tabloid reporters head to Romania to “investigate” (i.e., exploit,) a serial killer who drains his or her victims of blood, to simulate a vampire kill.
Since my research indicated that Romania had been known to wake up psychic abilities, thanks to where it sits on the planet, I decided to make my heroine, Reese Mackenzie, clairvoyant. And I decided to kick that up a few thousand notches the minute she stepped off the plane.
The director loved it. The producer loved it. Even the studios loved it. I was on my way!
Or… so I thought.
In writing this screenplay, I got a crash course on what it means to write for a living. If someone is paying you money for what you write, you kinda have to let them play around with your Barbies, even if they are doing something completely unexpected with them.
The first lesson? Budget restraints. You don’t really factor that in when you’re writing a spec script. You create the world you want to portray and just assume the Powers That Be will make all these scenes happen. But when you’re writing a small-budget screenplay, you have to keep that in the forefront of your mind.
For instance, I crafted a pretty intense scene in the subway only to be told that adding a subway scene in the movie would rack up the cost, since it comes with very specific shooting challenges. Out that scene went. Same with one of the fire scenes and the car chase. I had to pick and choose which scenes would be worth the cost paid to bring them to life, which teaches you all you need to know about efficient storytelling. I had to cut all extraneous characters from the script, because every speaking role is another actor you have to pay, which adds to the bill. If a character says anything, it has to mean everything.
And I was expected to roll with these punches, producing new drafts very quickly, while the interest was hot in the project. Whenever the studio wanted to cut cost and reduce the budget, I had to amend the screenplay yet again. Overall I wrote five drafts in as many months, which may explain why the breakneck pace of Nanowrimo has never really intimidated me.
Ultimately that story, though optioned, was shelved when the studio decided to pull the funding. Despite all that work I did, virtually for free, I was no closer to adding “professional” to my resume than I was before. (I ended up writing TASTE OF BLOOD as a novel, during the 2010 Nano ironically enough. I published it in 2011, because girlfriend is gonna get paid. Trust.)
The wealth of information I learned from the experience, however, was priceless.
In 2010, after a chronic illness left me unable to work a traditional 9-5 job in a brick-and-mortar business, I had a life-changing conversation with a friend of mine who just so happens to be a writer herself.
I met her in 1996 or thereabouts, when we both worked for the same company. She became my steadfast cheerleader, who encouraged me to write more, write a lot, try to sell it, even tackle screenplays. She believed I could do it.
By 2010, she had carved herself a writing career by writing non-fiction, which is a hustle all its own. But the hustle was necessary. Like me, she couldn’t work a traditional 9-5 job. Her son needed intensive medical care, which meant she had to be around for him as much as possible. This became her impetus to become a professional writer: she had no choice. There was no plan B.
“No Plan B” stayed with me for the next few months. When the opportunity to apply to become a freelance writer passed my way in June of that year, I took it. I was even more jazzed when I was accepted. At long last I could get paid to write.
Granted it was non-fiction. I didn’t really get to play around in the sandbox. But I got to write and I got paid for it, which was the first step in the right direction.
Freelance work was much like working in the film industry. I was expected to produce complete projects quickly. Whenever I selected an article to write, I had five days to produce a finished product, which would then go to an editor. If they found nothing wrong with it, it was published immediately and I got paid. If they found errors or wanted to tweak it to make it publication worthy, I got two passes before the article was released back into the pool for another writer to grab. If that happened, I got paid bupkis.
Thus created the real need to get it right the first time, and as quick as I could. As a new writer for this company, I was allowed to pull ten articles at a time, which meant I could virtually write my own paycheck if I was willing to put in the work.
After years and years of writing for free, I was so willing to put in the work.
And it was work. I pumped out articles, some without even having any interest at all in the topic. When you have bills to pay, you don’t get to choose. And you most certainly don’t get to play. I finally got to write for a living only to realize that it really was work. It was a job just like any other job. When I worked at an insurance company, I was expected to work overtime, processing as many claims as possible as quickly and correctly as possible. The better I did this, the more I got paid with bonuses, OT pay, and raises. It was all about quality and volume.
This would suit me well when I decided to self-publish in 2011, where I took all these lessons with me.
Let me be the first to tell you that there is no hustle like that of a self-publisher. You’re not just a mere writer anymore. You wear two hats now. You’re also a publisher, which means what you do is a business. This has nothing to do with being greedy or opportunistic or – that dreaded four-letter-word – a hack. You have your eye on the bottom line because you have to. The buck stops with you, literally. That’s your job. And if you’re successful, you can bring in an income. You just have to be ready to hustle along every other publisher selling their books in the same convoluted market.
Not too long ago, a writer published a piece, offering some advice for new indies, suggesting that you have to publish four books a year to stay relevant. There are thousands upon thousands of books released every year, and for many genres, like the romance genre, a lot of unknowns get a big bump around the time of the release, only to get buried under more successful authors who have already run the gauntlet and cultivated a staunch, devoted fan base. To compete with them, you need to publish new material. Fans of romance won’t wait around for you. There are too many books to be excited about, to gush and swoon over, and if you want to keep up, you better werk. *Snap*
Another author found this advice distressing. This author, whose primary income does NOT come from her writing, suggested what so many often do: that quick writing is crap, and, essentially, you’d be better of writing nothing at all than write a “bad book.”
If you really want to take the process seriously, anyway.
I already took issue with this in previous entries, so I won’t rehash why I think that’s complete and total bullshit. All I will say is that this author doesn’t understand the profession of writing, and most certainly doesn’t understand the business of publishing. When you claim to be a self-published writer, you’re not just some romantic vision of creative brilliance, waiting oh so longingly for your Muse to hand-deliver your next masterpiece on her schedule. You’re a publisher. You have your own schedule. And while there is room for creative genius, there are also more practical concerns, like keeping up with an ever-changing industry where the only rule that counts is that what worked last year won’t work this year.
You’re constantly changing and adapting, and, if you’re making any money at all doing it, you’re writing. All. The. Time.
That’s what it means to be a professional writer. This is a job. If you’re self-published, it’s two. If you’re talented, dedicated and lucky, you can break into that top 20% of writers who make over a grand a year. You can even sustain yourself, like I was very fortunate to do for several years. But this is fundamentally a sales job, where it is feast or famine. You have to be willing to hustle. You have to embrace it. You have to work hard, long hours for which you will never be truly compensated. When you hit publish on your new book, it’s going to take a lot of sales to compensate you after the fact for all the work you put into it, and whether you do or don’t is a crap shoot even if you’ve been successful in the past.
I mentioned the film business earlier. I watched a documentary many years ago that really drove the idea home that show business is still a business. And, much like publishing, it is one that fails more often than it succeeds. Per this documentary, out of every ten movies, only four make any money, and only one is a blockbuster.
That means that half of your darts will miss the bull's eye, no matter how finely you sharpen them.
This is why publishing and show business is a numbers game. Whether your release is successful or flops hard, you don't have time either to rest on your laurels or bask in the praise and success, or wallow in the pity. You need to turn your attention to your next project, so you can keep the momentum going - or recoup the losses.
I’m pretty sure you can see now why I happened to bring this topic up in relation to Nanowrimo. Like we discussed yesterday, Nano gets a lot of flak for setting up “unrealistic” expectations for writers, one that you can write a book at all in a month, and two, that it would be worth the time and effort it took to write it.
Honestly, if you want to be a working writer, I think there’s nothing that prepares you better for the hustle ahead, particularly if you need to sell your work to a publisher. You’re going to get edits and input from people who will virtually withhold your paycheck until you concede a little creative control. You’re going to be expected to roll with those changes and produce subsequent drafts, and you’re not going to be given a whole lot of time to do it. When there’s money on the line, nobody has the time to wait for you to pull a lightning bolt out of your keister. You may have to confer directly with the gods to channel your brilliance, but they have deadlines.
If you want to get paid, you’re going to have to meet them.
My advice? Write like you’re getting paid for it, even when you’re not.
I’ve known many bloggers who have dipped their toes in the self-publishing pool. To my mind, they are better prepared than anyone to turn their “hobby” into a career. Many readers are frustrated writers deep down, and bloggers find their own way to express themselves, constantly on crazy deadlines where they have to read dozens of books just to keep themselves relevant. They read quick. They write quick. They move on to the next project. This, in a nutshell, is what it means to be a working writer.
They likely get paid peanuts to do so, too, if anything at all. Many writers find themselves in the same boat, advised to blog and build community within their fan base so that they can sell more books. And we fit it in wherever we can, even when we have paid writing to do. That's what it means to be a working writer. You write to work, and you work All. The. Time. This is whether you're paid or not or whether you feel like it or not. Deadlines are deadlines and your integrity to meet them is part of your brand. Your fans believe in you, they have faith in you, and you have to deliver your best every single time you sit down to write for them.
It. Is. A. Job. There's a lot of hard work involved, and some of it actually feels like work. When you're first starting out, all of it does.
If you really want to make this your career, you gotta cowboy up. There are far too many hungry writers fighting for every single dollar. (Actually, that’s a generous description… they’re fighting for every penny.) When that producer tells you that he wants a draft within a week, you say “No problem,” and you deliver. You have to, because if you don’t, someone else will. Someone down in the mines, all dirty, grungy and starving, who knows that in order to get anywhere they don’t wait around for “goodness” to happen or lightning to strike. They reach for a hammer and call lightning from the sky, because they have to.
Because they can.
This is your chance to dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Embrace the whole of the experience, not just the good bits where you’re sitting on some beach somewhere sipping a Mai Tai. (At least, if the ads on Facebook to become a best-selling author are to be believed anyway.)
Learning how to work with deadlines gets you ever closer to making your dream to become a professional writer come true. Setting time apart in your day to write, and giving yourself a set goal to get to, teaches you the discipline you’re going to need to turn a hobby into a career, one that weeds out the meek and the timid just by virtue of the gauntlet you must run in order to earn your place at a very crowded table.
Only career-minded folks will cross that finish line November 30. Hobbyists have the luxury of waiting for inspiration to strike. They write for the sheer joy, and there's nothing at all wrong with that. Some people don't want to pervert their art by turning into something as base as mundane as a commercial product. They want to play in the sandbox, on their terms.
Nano is not really built for them. Nano is all about crossing that definitive finish line with a finished product in your hand, which trains you, ultimately, to produce content on a deadline. There’s nothing all that joyful about a looming deadline where you’re expected to produce a lot of content really quickly. It's stressful and daunting and frustrating and exhausting.
It's also totally worth it. There is value in seeing how far you can push yourself, and just how much you can accomplish.
If you want to take this and make it work for you, you absolutely can. A first draft in a month isn’t some miraculous feat. Good books can and have been written in short periods of time. Since it's been done before, this means it can be done again. If your livelihood depends on a solid, completed project, you will make it so, whether it’s a blog, a 100-page screenplay, a 2500-word article or a 50,000k-book. This is business as usual for most people who are lucky enough to claim that they do this for a living. Remember: the key words there are “for a living." That means it’s not your hobby. It’s not some random windfall you occasionally enjoy. It means you have bills to pay and the wolf is at the door, so you better plant your ass in the seat and write like your life depends on it.
Because it kinda does.
This is your training ground for that.
Pick up your hammer. Call down the thunder. Make it so.
Started First Draft: November 3, 2015 8:38am PST
Completed First draft: November 3, 2015 10:16am PST
Word Count of first draft: 3,493
Completed revisions: November 3, 2015 11:21am PST
Updated WC: 4,156/9,356
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