C.H. Valentino

I'm over due for a little blog action, and updates and so on and so forth so I thought I would make this a good one:

 

ahem..

 

Of Hollow Men is completed.

 

Done, done, done-ski.

 

(it need a solid edit, but that's what the next two days are for)

 

She's done and I was so happy lastnight I cried a little.

 

Okay, that said....

 

Wait! What?? Did you say something-- oh... you think that I-- well, let me explain.

 

This is not a first draft. This is the third redraft that has undergone the term I have coined (pledgeting). So, no, I am NOT sending a first draft off to an agent. Don't be silly. Who does that?!? (Lots of people, I know, sad but true) But, if you've been following me on Twitter and Blog, you'll know that Of Hollow Men has been alive and complete for quiet some time. In fact, the end I originally drafted was great-- it just wasn't, well... Sam-great. And as Sam evolved-- and de-evloved thanks to the summer of 2009 brush with an internet preditor- and then evolved again, Of Hollow Men needed a full overhaul to showcase the style I worked so hard to develop.

 

Additionally, I kind of got addicted to Donald Maass' Fire in Fiction and took to carrying it around with me next to my copy of the Inferno. Seemed like every time I'd read something else in the book, a line would shake free, and I'd dive toward the manuscript to add six lines of text that made it just that much better.

 

All that is done. I've been cover to cover and back again on Maass' book. I've filled in the sections I was shaky about. I've written the ending that was planned until LAST NIGHT when all hell broke loose, my Muse turned on Carmina Burana and refilled my glass of Schnapps. At 4:45 am I had and ending that made me happier than all 23 manuscripts that came before it.

 

And my to-do list just got a lot shorter. Wanna see the list? I know I want to type it.

 

1. Reread- start to finish. (I'm gonna red pen this bad boy, make a note, and move on just so I can do the full read)

2. Hard Edit the last 10 chapters (nothing of the rhythm has been addressed here, so I still have about 16 hours of work to do here)

3. Full copy edit (this is why I have Butch, Julian, and Sparky... because I HATE copy editing. Uhg. It makes me eyes cross)

4. And then.... *drum roll* I have a full rhythm count to do. (huh?) Yes, a rhythm count. As I have explained in previous blogs, my style rests largely in music. So, who thing has to be read for, you guessed it, rhythm.

 

The last one is my favorite- I might do that first.

 

Two:

 

I've picked my Top Five Agents after extensive research- oh, and this is too funny... see Mini-Blog Below.

 

Finding an Agent that RIGHT for YOU:

 

1. Find an agent.

2. Google said Agent.

3. Check Twitter, Blog, and Agency page.

     3a. Twitter- follow and consider agent's thoughts. Can you work with this person?

     3b.Blog- read blog, laugh, get to know how well they know what they are doing.

     3c. Agency page:

           So, while Twitters and Blogs are great tools, the most important questions are generally going to be here. And they are:

A. Is this agent accepting queries?

B. What do they represent?

    1. Got that? Good.

    2. Go to Amazon.

    3. Look up the writer.

    4. Look for books available to "Look Inside!"

    5. By all means, look inside. What do you think of this author's style? Their opening, their tone, their POV. How is it executed? Their agent read these first five pages in an email, too. You're looking at what YOUR potential agent requested and eventually took to represent. There might be a clue here as to whom you might be asking to work with.

    6. Lather. Rise. Repeat. Look at all the agents at that page. If one is not right for you, there might BE one at that agency that is. Peek around, become a super-slooth (but not a stalker)

C. FOLLOW ALL THE DIRECTIONS ON THE SUBMISSON GUIDELINES ON THE PAGE!!

 

Why is this in all caps? Because I follow Colleen Lindsay on Twitter, that's why, and someone mailed her agency a sealed Starbucks cup full of flour! (Yeah, whoever you are, you're an asshole) And this psycho is at home probably thinking, "I'll bet THAT got her attention!" Yeah, sure did. And I hope she pressed criminal charges, you ass-hat.

 

In read about this all the time, and I am really beginning to believe that part of the publishing industry's problem is the slush piles. That said, if you are going to send your work, no tricks are going to get you ahead. Let your work do the talking.

 

4. Pick your top-ten. Make a list. Figure out which ones really rep what you are writing. How do you know that? Put that in your query letter and make it personal.

5. Okay, this requires a lil' bit o math. Most agents list time frames of when you can expect to hear from them- 2 week to 8 weeks. I say, try to put likes with likes. I.E if Agent Sue Smith takes email only and responds in 2-4 weeks, and Agent Jane Doe takes email only and take 1-3 weeks, you're safe to put those out maybe around the same time.

The one thing that I've heard conflicting numbers on is how many. I don't see any reason to ask more than four people the same question at one time. And there are plenty of agencies that say multi-queries are okay. It's a competative market between authors and agents alike. So, go forth and compete.

But, PLEASE, do not blanket the agencies. And if you are the helmet-wearing hotel mattress-stain baby who keeps sending the same query over and over and over and over again to all the same people, STOP IT! Jesus. You suck. So does your book. Go play in traffic.

So, all, now that you know how to find and agent, go forth- and find and agent. And feel secure in knowing, the more work your put in and the more picky you are, the better it will be for you in the end.

CHV

 

 

 

 

Okay, lots to cover today folks. Lets get started.

 

First, I think I got spammed on my guestbook, but if I got spammed, it is the weirdest spam I have every received! Thus making it blogalbe. Please see the following:  

 

Nialdlye shook out her hand as though it would help the creeping sensation to fade. But the best fighting they could manage were savage couplings to slake the sexual need. Most commonly, those who were truemated fell in love, sometimes instantly sometimes it took centuries. He really was afraid. Past Radins shoulder, she spied her parents watching closely, concern utmost on their faces. The smile was still there. He squeezed her shoulder, his eyes gleaming softly in the absence of light. Laughing, Gala waved a hand in the air. They had helped to raise her. Were bound, I cant help that, but the two of you should be together. She barely restrained the urge to push up and seal her lips to his. At the end of her rope, Eyrhaen rushed for the door. I didnt say we werent mad. Oh yes, this was right. The larger part of her brain writhed with the rest of her body. Laughing, he grabbed her hips and rolled over. He, too, enjoys your garden. It wasnt real, you know. We arent exactly a monogamous society. He wrapped strong arms about her waist, crushing her against him as he stood.

 

Now, a little writer's forensic anaylasis tells me a few things.

A.) The author's first language is NOT English.

2.) If the author's frist language is English, his mama oughta be ashamed of herself.

3.) The sentence "he too enjoys your garden".... now that made me laugh until I fell out of my chair.

 

So, I think I got spammed from Isarel. Why Isarel you ask? Because I can I.P track, and I know where my hits come from. So, whoever this was.... it was cut.e. Not sure why you did it, but I'll be happy to crit for you if you send me an email and get in line just like everyone else.

 

Item 2:

 

Hey, it's March First! Wasn't that like, a deadline for something? Oh yeah....

 

Submissions.

 

Well, since my job kind of launched a hostile attack on my schedule, the ending for Of Hollow Men has been radically delayed. But I am hoping, with a little luck, I'll be completed and submitting on Friday of this week.

 

Item 3:

 

I'm not a veggie anymore. It was kicking my ass, and I couldn't keep it together, and I saw a piece of meat and I just ...

 

*munch*

 

I am a carnivore! I cannot help myself! I'm sorry....I'm sorry.... *cries*

 

Item 4:

 

I began yesterday with a marriage proposal. Yeah, cute, huh? My ex-boyfriend, in a show of extreame altruism did the whole, "When I'm done with my masters degree, you know, you really don't have to work. You can just write and...."

 

Oh, why are you wincing? I didn't hurt him. I thanked him and told him, very sweetly, while that is a kind offer, I think I'm just going to go about it my own way.

 

*breaks into a rousing vesus of Independent Woman*

 

You know, dear Reader, if you look at Clive's painting in preceeding blogs, you'll notice: The subject matter is very close to my every day. And while I know this painting was not done FOR me, it is no wonder it drew my eye. General theme of my life, and to quote the artist, "You see, what it is, my darling, is a gigantic cunt."

Yes, yes it is.  

Okay, gotta edit.

CHV

 

 

 

Periodically, I believe I may be having anxiety attacks. But I'm not certain.

 

 My novel is close to being completed. This may be par for the course.

 

Additionally, my novel is closed to being finished. This... is... mildly... frightening...

 

 I had a little time second guessing myself and something I chose to do in the manuscript. The jury is still out on if this is going to bear modifying. But in truth, I think I need to batton down the hatches and stay hermit-girl until I am done.

 

 In such a hyper state of awareness and anxious energy, so much as ordering my coffee from an unfarmiliar barista is just too much to take right now, and tends to toss me off sanity's bridge.

 

 I make it sound like I've never finished a novel before, don't I? But this is the strange part-- this is so much like what I imagine child birth must be like. I mean, what is finishing a novel if not the final stage of creation? And it's so goddamn painful, the body forgets what it felt like the first time.

 

 Moral of my tale: I've done this before, but I always will fear the stillborn.

 

Chew on that.

 

CHV

 

Rewind to December, back into the fading days of 2009 (The year of the Ox... or as I like to call it, 361 days of HELL)

 

But, Coleen, you say, there are 365 days in a year.

 

Well, yes, but for four of them were pure bliss.

 

It has been said that one must suffer for art. I've never subscribed to this belief, but  if it is the case that one must feel pain to see beauty, 2009 was my pain, and it was a year that ended in much beauty. Enjoy.

The painting below will forever hang in the space where I write, where I create. It is my constant reminder of the truth and beauty of the imagination.

 

CHV

"Untitled" by Clive Barker

.... Or: Why I'm Suckin' Tofu.

 

So, in a rousing conversation with my friend and computer hacker extraordinaire, I tell him:

 

"Uhg, my stomach hurts. I had a McGriddle and I think it's making me McNauseous."

 

My healthfood Guru: *shaking head* "Maybe you should stop eating meat."

 

Me: "Oh, not this bullshit again."

 

Guru: "I'm serious, Coleen, you might be suprised how different you'll feel."

 

Me: "I am a omnivore, Mike. I'm built to consume."

 

Guru: "You are eating, that is, putting into your body, partially cooked bits of flesh. HOW can you even think that is good for you?"

 

Me: "Because it tastes good for me."

 

*stops, thinks, notes: Cigarettes, alcohol, and opiates taste good too. SO not

good for me.*

 

Guru: Okay, give me 30 days to prove myself, and I'll bet your never eat meat again.

 

Me: And if I want to?

 

Guru: I'll take you out for steak.

 

Me: How big of a steak?

 

Guru: *gag* Yuck. Geez- however big they come.

 

Me: Deal.

 

So, I'm a vegatarian now. At least, for the next 30 Days. Urm.... well, beginning tomorrow.

 

What?!?! I already had a McGriddle, I might as well eat all the meat I have on hand, right?

 

So, some Googling reveals there are quiet a few protien options for the non-fleshy feasters. I might be able to live. Might.

 

Ya'll are probably wondering about the book, huh? Yesterday was the deadline.

 

I didn't make it, but hey, it wasn't my fault. My work schedule was changed to 7-am to 3pm days and there was very little that could be done. As I have gotten into the habit of writing from 11pm to 4am every day, this going to bed at 9pm shit tossed me sideways. I made every attempt and I did get a large portion of the book into its final phases. But as far as the Feb. 19th deadline, I feel short by four chapters. With three days off coming up, I intended on finishing, and if not finishing, betting down to the final polish.

 

March 1st Of Hollow Men goes on submission. My aim is set really high- an agent who seems so well suited for my work- but she works for one of the largest agencies in New York. So, my gut says I have to go for it, but my ego says, "BRACE FOR IMPACT!"

 

As I begin submissions, I'll blog as much as possible, but I will be launching full ahead into Sam's second book, Within A Dream.

 

See you soon.

 

CHV

This is the fastest blog that I have ever written, so bear with me and forgive any typos and/or spelling errors.

Okay, so, everyone that I work with got together and said, "How can we drvie Coleen to the brink of insanity?" Hmmmm.... After much thought, they decided to move my schedule and place me in the day slot. That's 7am to 3pm for all my night owls. And it is truly barbaric.

Luckily, it is only temporary, and being the sport that I am, I am making every effort to be Suzy Sunshine and SMILE and LAUGH and be PRODUCTIVE! (All the makings of a homicidal RAGE!)

For the most part, this had effected my writing time the most (as I do the bulk of my writing between 1am and 4am) and just about made me want to toss myself into traffic. Samantha's progress has been slowed. Notice, slowed, not stopped. She and I sat up until 9pm (I know- I feel like a Grandma going to be that early!) and we polished out our, erm, her final days in rehab.

Monday I am headed south to the Vern for the final bout of research and MUCH needed write time with Butch. Hopefully, next week will be the last week of this bullshit and I will be able to just step back and ride back into my slot and go back to my night life.

CHV

....My name is Samantha Marlow,

 

and I haven't got time for this shit!

 

Imagine, if you will, two writers- lock steadfast in debate. Foiled with each other like some fantastic character arch indicative of the Italian Rennisance. Imagine one broad shouldered, blackberry haired sociopath that governs the extremities of one very ambivolent woman; who in her own regards, is very much still a girl lost among the sum of her inner parts- those inner parts consisting, predominantly of... her. And me.

 

Such is one led to believe that she, me...I...suffer from multiple personality disorder. That we collectively inhabirt one body but share multiple different levels of consciousness. Yet- were it not for the body, we would not exist thereby negating all diagnosis of MPD.

The diagnosis requires that at least two personalities routinely take control of the individual's behavior with an associated memory loss that goes beyond normal forgetfulness; in addition, symptoms cannot be due to substance abuse or medical condition.

 

So, then, WHAT are we?

 

We are enemies. We are lovers. Friends. Collegues. Associates. Best friends. Ruling parties. Losing members. Fantastic. Flawed. Symbiotic. But beyond all that- we are destructive. The surgery that kills- remove us, might kill her. Leave us, she might kill herself.

 

We come from a long line of possession- felt by many thousands of writers, painters,muscians, singers, actors... creative people who let the tumor grow unchecked until it put an unnatural amount of pressure on the lobes of the brain- but also broke free that common day constraints and agreements of the mind. We're free- because we don't exist.

 

We don't exist because we're not real. But religion teaches us, often then intangible brings a swifter and more painfull death than any mortal set upon mortal.

 

Knowing all this, I still chose civil war with C.H Valentino.

 

S.A.M

I had a terrifying dream last night- nay; terrifying. Paralyzingly real- and horrific.

 

I drempt living in a large loft apartment in Manhattan- and I was holed up in my studio working on the newest, lastest, greatest installment of Sam Marlow

 

Anyway- I'm pecking away on this old school black lacquer type writer when blood starts dripping on the keys. So, I look around my desk and find everything is covered in blood- red and moving like tiny snake over the desk top.

 

(here comes the worst part)

 

I woke up. And I ran to the bathroom- and looked in the mirror. And Samantha was looking at me- and said, "You don't do anything I don't want you to do". Then I look into the sink and it is full of blood, and my hands are cut off at the wrists.

 

Then I really woke up.

 

I seriously, was sick to my stomach. I dry heaved and then went back to bed- only to lay there, cradling my hands for an hour.

 

Sigh.

 

Can you say man vs. himself??!  

 

Jesus.

 

CHV

I had this odd thought- about the taste of human skin today. I was walking out of Dieburgs and passed a man, not particularly handsom but attractive in his own, but GOD! did he smell FANTASTIC! I'm not sure what it is about the perfect cologne on a man that turns my head to thinking about the mastication of human flesh- but I think that might be the reaction which many designers strive to acheive.

 

It seems, in the moment, such a primal reaction- and yet, so natural. Thinking of dogs- and how in shows of dominance and submission they lock to one another's neck. Or in the case of any pack mammal. 

 

Large cats have a tendency to bite the back of the neck during intercourse. So I find it amazing that a simple smell can ellicit such a primative reaction in the middle of the most enlighted setting. (IE. the middle america yuppie grocery mecca)

 

I think, if it were socially acceptable, I would eat people. Not in the Hannibal, cook your flesh and pair it with wine kind of way- but if it were socially acceptable consume human flesh like you would, say, chicken, I think I would do it.

 

There is a great line in "Prozac Nation"- "I know now why people kill their lovers, eat their lovers, burn them and inhale the ashes of their dead lovers- it is the only way to fully possess another person."

 

Yeah- just like that.

 

CHV

... honey, please. You don't know me that W-E-L-L.

 

I can't spell.

 

Okay, I can spell. But I haz issues.

 

And that is, on a keyboard my spelling falls all to hell. Stick a pen in my hand and I'm fine.... except for when I get to the big ones with all the vowels all smished up next to eachother. (precipiation always nails me... I never get that one right the first time)

 

(PS. And I totally know the difference between "your" and "you're" but for some stinking reason my fingers don't consult my brain before they just screw it up.)

 

(PPS. When I was in grade school, my first grade teacher had the word "little" on our spelling test, but she had spelled it wrong. L-I-T-T-E-L. To this day I still spell little with an "el" before I punch the DELETE key and correct it. Every time.)  

 

It was pointed out to me in high school and then later in college this might have something to do with the fact that I am a self-taught typist. In college my professor (who was this really cool geeky computer guy that seemed to know a little bit about just about everything) made me do this typing test program that he had written that determines which hand you favor when you type.

 

68% of my typing is done with my left hand. (I'm left handed)

 

Two years ago, my job tested me for typing speed. I type 210 words a minute. (This comes from having to type as fast as people speak- as is the nature of my job- 5 days a week, eight hours a day)

 

And I forgot this until someone pointed it out to me eariler this week. The solution is very simple- I should spell check my blogs. But I don't because I type them straight into a HTML prompt and I don't like all the copy-cut-paste-reformating that must take place. That and I cut these blogs off in about 15 minutes between 911 calls.

 

Truth be told, I really only care about my spelling- or lack thereof- in the final drafts of my novels...

 

...or when Word puts that annoying little red squiggle underneath one of my brillantly crafted sentences....

 

...but beyond that, I generally leave it like it is... and here's why I'm really okay with that:

 

I looked at a lot of art in L.A. (emphasis of A LOT) And the one thing I always found myself doing was looking for the aritist in the paint/ink. And I almost always found it- on the right upper hand corner of a canvas or the lower middle edge of a sketch- were his finger prints. Sometimes they were small and smeared- other times, enough to clench a murder case... but they were there.

 

Fingerprints in the ink.

 

I'd never intentionally publish an error. Not in something like Of Hollow Men or Even In... or even a short story in a magazine. But, here, in my blogs I am as real and off-the-cuff creative as I can get. These are my little (littel) escape routes during the eight full hours that I have to "make a living". This is my connection to the readers and writers outside my 6 x 6 steel-trap office. This is my confessional.  

 

So, my fingerprints in the ink are just that... a touch of my humanity. I'm okay with that. And I hope that you are too.

 

CHV