Write Your Query Letter Now

I am an impatient type of person. I like always to be starting on the next step, the next thing. So, part way through my novel, I became a query troll, roaming the internets for information on ‘what comes next’.

Not long after, I developed an addiction for Query Shark. “Here’s where I stop reading,” the Shark declared over and over. I absorbed her critiques and grew eager to write a query letter of my own.

So I began. It sounded easy enough. Main character + one choice + consequences.

Oddly enough, my first two paragraphs had none of those elements.

And I tried to start the third paragraph, but couldn’t quite figure out what to say next. The odd thing was, I heard the Shark’s voice in my head: “This is where your story starts.”

“What?” I thought. “This is where my story starts? This paragraph I haven’t written yet? What about these first two paragraphs?”

I read them again.

Uh oh. The voice in my head was right.

Those two paragraphs were not where my story started.

Worse yet, those two paragraphs represented the first 10 chapters of my story. That, and I still couldn’t come up with the third paragraph.

So I forgot about the parts of the story I’d actually written, and headed forward with my query letter. I finally wrote a query that didn’t incite the Shark’s voice to pop into my head. (Mind you, the one in my head is not the real Shark, so I’m sure the real Shark would have plenty to say. But she’s not allowed to read my query yet, because I haven’t finished my manuscript.)

It was a difficult exercise, and perhaps prematurely executed. Yet it was surprisingly helpful

Things I learned writing my query letter:

My story started in chapter eleven. [Eek, chapter eleven. That doesn’t sound good.]

Having an omniscient narrator gave me no reason to withhold information that needed withholding. I realized this when I couldn’t even figure out how to withhold this in my query.

Odd as it sounds, I had not a clue who my main character was. [I still think of my story as having an ‘ensemble cast’ but I also now have a character who is a ‘red cord’, someone whose character arc compels the story from page one to page last.]

What happened:

My chapter eleven is now chapter one. All the backstory from the first ten chapters has been distilled and inserted sparingly in the action of the tale.

I have a narrator who is also a character, who is capable of not knowing the whole story until she finds out later.

I had to start from a blank page to accommodate this narration.

I found a character I did not know existed in my tale, but whose presence is of inexorable significance.

Several events that I had feared would seem extraneous and gratuitous became necessary as I reshaped the novel.

I realized how utterly glad I am I had these revelations and made these changes before actually sending a query to agents. I learned that my novel needed serious help, without even having to be rejected. When I finally do send that query, I will be confident that I have done all I can in my limited knowledge and the knowledge available on the internet. And that is a good feeling. (But when I get rejections, don’t try to calm me down by reminding me I said that. I will yell at you for not understanding, and it will not be pretty. Fair warning.)

So, write your query letter now.

Oh, The Horrors of POV!

My novel used to be over 60,000 words, and not yet complete. I was well on my way to a decent length for publishable fiction, closing in on that lovely number agents like to see in query letters (at least that’s what they say on their blogs; I have yet to actually query).

But then something horrible happened. I changed the POV from a decent third person limited to a first person. A first person who is not writing his/her own tale, but that of someone else. So first person who sometimes writes in third person. (Oh, and he/she is not androgynous, I simply do not want the internets at large knowing things like that about my story. I know, I’m weird.)

When I made this POV change, the stars aligned, the heavens opened up, the outline fell together and all the characters rejoiced!

Until I got to chapter 18.

Those of you who follow me on twitter may be aware that chapter 18 of my work in progress has been quite the ball and chain recently.

My poor narrator ran into a problem: He/she had never been to the major scene in chapter 18, nor had any of her informants. What to do? Put one of her informants at the event? No, too many unbelievable plot twists. Change to another POV for this chapter? No, too inconsistent with the manner of the telling.

So, finally, I made my decision. The lovely scene I had so looked forward to writing got cut. Gone. Finito. Thin air. Funtoosh. I simply couldn't make it work.

And this, I think, is among the hardest things writers have to do. We must separate our wheat scenes from our chaff scenes and throw our chaff in into the fire. (Actually I recommend saving them in a separate chaff file, to be retrieved during your third draft when you decide to change the POV back to third person omniscient. Just in case. You can, however, name the file “unquenchable fire”.)

POV is an important decision. It can make or break your story. In fact it can make and break your story at the same time. So beware!

The Semiotics of Setting

I have a terrible confession to make. I don’t know history.

I mean, I know some stuff…I’m not completely inept. But I don’t know what happened the Friday after Hitler died, or how quickly the use of the light bulb spread through the world following its invention.

Why is this a problem?

Well, it’s a problem because, on occasion, I pretend to write historical fiction.

I say ‘pretend’ because I’ve never quite gotten there. I can’t figure out the correct circumstances of characters in the times they supposedly live because I don’t know the history surrounding those times well enough to do so convincingly.

Also, I don’t really care.

History was and is important. But in my fiction, the (non-fictional) facts don’t matter to me. So I use history and geography for their semiotic value.

By which I mean: How do the historical and geographical signs (say, a kerosene lamp) relate to the reader, the characters, and the story in general?

The simple existence of a kerosene lamp speaks a great deal to a modern reader. It means the story is taking place somewhere unlike the world we live in. It is probably many years ago, and there is likely greater adherence to social structure and propriety. Also, the story probably takes place within a settled society, not a primitive environment.

If I am writing a story that has need of these elements, can I choose to convey them by setting my story in a world where a kerosene lamp is an everyday item for my characters? Or does my use of a kerosene lamp require me to include the kind of historical details of the events that took place when kerosene lamps were commonly used.

I personally champion the first of these, and not just because I’m too lazy to research all the details necessary. Using such elements is common in sci-fi and fantasy. The reader gets signals from the weaponry and technology and clothing and manner of speech in these worlds which do not really exist. In literary fiction (eep, just called my fiction literary) these elements do not lose their ability to signal the reader simply because the story takes place on earth.

Or maybe I just tell myself that so I can stop buying history books.