erin

summer in the revisionland hotel

I have extensive notes from my agent (my agent, yay!) in hand and I am gearing up to spend the next several weeks in the Revisionland Hotel. A summer of tiki torch nights and umbrella drinks and writing writing writing.

And it will be writing writing writing, because more than “change this, take out that” which might be nice and simple in comparison, for this next round of revising I get to dig deeper and add more and elaborate on what I have already.

Eep.

It is a combination of daunting and exhilarating. And I’m not sure how to do it yet, but I’ll figure it out.

So I am taking my own notes and pondering and mulling and trying to get things done while I note-take and ponder and mull, like the paintings I can finally start on because I have black paint again, and reading other people’s books (go read Rock Paper Tiger ASAP, it is marvelous and compelling and it will make you crave dumplings).

And today I got my latest BPAL order, which is always a happy occasion. I have moths & butterflies (bottles of Gypsy: Bourbon vanilla, Egyptian musk, tonka, white sugar, and cardamom & Paper Kite: Coconut, white sugar, angelica, and black pepper) and a Vanilla-based Chaos Theory, #95 to be exact.

Trying the chaos first. Beyond the clear vanilla the mystery notes are remaining mysterious. I think there might be white musk in there somewhere, but I’m not entirely sure. Overall, it is this gorgeously blended scent that’s bright and warm and creamy, even the vanilla that was so obvious in the bottle has calmed and faded into the background as a steady undercurrent.

And while I’m sitting here huffing at my wrists, I realize this is what the book needs.

The base notes are there. Maybe some of those bright top notes, too. But it’s those nuanced middle notes that take it from “that smells like vanilla” to “ooooooooh, what is that?” that it needs now. The in-betweens that tie everything together and make it richer as a whole.

Because I can make writing analogies about anything.

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: broken-wing butterfly

broken-wing butterfly

I worry hope will crush me, the way love has so many times before.

Are they so different, hope and love? O & E in the same place, half of the other in each word.

Both swimming in unknowns.

I’ve been through the big changes. These ones should seem easier in comparison, I should be more prepared, but they don’t and I’m not.

Sometimes I feel like a broken-wing butterfly, clinging to a window screen.

Afraid to let go. Afraid to stay.

Wondering how much wing is enough to fly.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

By erin, ago

weekend & kitten in a box

Had a weekend that include lots of reading and lots of food. Made blueberry pomegranate sangria. Got chocolate cayenne ice cream when we went out for dinner. Took a handful of photos on the way home, including the twilight church bell above with the fantastical purple sky.

Finished reading Ash & The Book Thief, so apparently the reading section of my brain is no longer broken. And today I have a new box of books, after shenanigans on Saturday with lying USPS tracking.

Am particularly excited because this box had this in it:

No, not Tessa. I’ve wanted to read Lisa Brackmann’s Rock Paper Tiger ever since Nathan Bransford posted the gorgeous cover on his blog ages ago, and that was before I realized I actually knew Lisa from Absolute Write, so needless to say I am extra special excited to finally have it, even if it’s already covered in kitty fuzz.

Tessa, of course, prefers the box.

Obviously.

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: the happiness store

the happiness store

The Happiness Store does not have a permanent location. It travels from place to place on wheels, like an extremely large ice cream truck.

(Ice cream is not available at The Happiness Store.)

When it arrives, it sets itself down and with the wheels folded up into its foundation it appears as steady and solid as any brick and mortar store, though it is one that can and will depart at any time.

The thing that sometimes catches customers by surprise is that everything inside the store is wrapped. The contents of the shelves and displays are meticulously covered in paper or sealed in opaque bags.

Nothing may be opened until it has been paid for.

There are no refunds or exchanges, and nothing ever goes on sale.

But free samples are available (one per customer), in tiny boxes tied with ribbon.

Though the management recommends that such samples be passed along to others, to those who are unable to visit The Happiness Store themselves.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

By erin, ago

agented

Gather ’round, kidlets. Story time.

In 2003, I tried doing NaNoWriMo for the first time, because I’d always wanted to write but had never been good about sitting down and actually doing it. I had ideas in notebooks but nothing concrete.

I tried. I failed. Burnt out around 15k.

In 2004, I tried again. I made it to 50k that year. That novel is not a novel, it is a sprawling mess of post-apocalyptic… something.

In 2005, for NaNo #3, I had no plot but lots of atmosphere, and when I reached the 30k mark and had no idea where to go with it, I sent my characters to the circus.

In 2006, I spent NaNo working on that circus. I ended up with something interesting, but not novel-shaped.

In 2007, I did another 50k worth of work on the circus. In NaNo terms this is cheating. I’m sorry.

Throughout 2008 I took the 100k+ of circus… stuff and attempted to shape it into a novel.

I don’t know how many drafts it went through. Four, maybe? It started to have something resembling a proper shape in the beginning of 2009.

From 2008 to, well, now, I started learning about the publishing industry.

On June 2nd, 2009, I sent out my first batch of query letters.

I sent six queries out in that first batch. Within 20 minutes I had a partial request and a full request. I got another full request two hours later, two rejections the next day, and a third full request a few weeks later.

Ten days later those first two full request turned into rejections. The partial joined them in rejectionland soon after.

I sent out more queries. I got more requests. I got more rejections.

In August, I got a full request that turned into a phone call. A very nice phone call that I’m pretty sure I did nothing but stammer during, and was a request to rework the book almost entirely, but it was still an offer of representation.

I got in touch with the other agents who were still considering. Some of them passed. I had more phone calls. I think I stammered less in those.

I ended up not taking any offers at that point. I decided to revise independently, because everyone seemed to be saying different versions of the same thing.

I spent September and October of 2009 revising. I pushed around what I had. I tried to have more *stuff* happen. I polished it. I wrapped it up in pretty bows.

I sent it back to the three agents who wanted to see it.

More phone calls. More e-mails. All three of them said different versions of “well… not there yet.”

So I sighed. I ate a lot of chocolate. I wrote a completely different story for NaNo ’09. I took December off.

In January of 2010, I checked into the Revisionland Hotel.

I tore everything apart. I changed the format. I changed the plot. Well, I changed what little plot there was into an actual plot. I took over 25k out and put other stuff in. I sent it to old beta readers and new beta readers. I changed it some more.

I sent it back to agents two weeks ago.

Last week I had one offer of representation.

On Monday I had three.

I thought about it. A lot. I was extremely lucky to have three wonderful agents spending their time on me and my work, offering wonderful advice throughout this process.

In the end I signed with the same agent I had that very first stammering phone call with back in August.

I am now represented by Richard Pine of InkWell Management.

Almost exactly a year after I started querying.

By erin, ago

so long & thanks for all the polar bears

The series finale of LOST is on tonight, which you probably already knew unless you live on a deserted island without a television.

The awesome posters that were going around the interwebs way back at the beginning of the season are going to be available on abc.com. I kind of want the bunny one.

It’s weird to have something that’s been part of my life for so long come to an end. Six years is a long time. I watched the pilot episode in a teeny apartment in Boston on an equally teeny television what seems like half a lifetime ago. Since then I’ve gotten married, moved away, written a novel, painted a tarot deck. Tessa wasn’t even around for the premiere, that’s how long ago and far away it was.

The boy & I spent part of the cocktail hour at our wedding flailing about the greatest use of the Red Sox on television, ever, from the episode that had aired that week, back in Season 3.

And yes, I picked the polar bear photo for this past Friday’s flax-golden tale on purpose.

I doubt I’ll ever have this again. I don’t watch that much television. I certainly don’t watch that much television that keeps me theorizing and hypothesizing and occasionally flailing around like a fangirl. Like, I don’t buy tv stuff, yet I have Dharma shot glasses & I’m wearing a shirt with the numbers on it right now, even though I’m rather annoyed that the numbers themselves haven’t gotten a satisfying resolution yet. I suppose they have a couple more hours to explain.

I’m excited and nervous even though I’ve been kind of nonplussed about the last few episodes and I’m still mad about Frank. I’m making frozen pina coladas later. Soon there will be Hawaiian pizza.

I likely won’t be posting thoughts on the finale, because I know there are people who won’t be able to watch it tonight, or haven’t even watched the show at all and if you’re one of them you really should, I think it actually works better watched on DVD instead of week-to-week.

So goodbye, LOST. You’ve meant a lot to me even when I wanted to throw things at the TV. You had mystery and cleverness and bunnies. You are responsible for my massive crush on Michael Emerson. You made me laugh. You made me cry. (The latter I blame mostly on Michael Giacchino.) You always kept me guessing.

You’ve been a special kind of awesome. The kind that dares you to look death in the face and say, “Whatever, man.”

Thank you. I’ll miss you.

By erin, ago