My Novel Sold To St. Martin’s Griffin! : ) Part One.

 

 

What’s been saved in my work inbox for 14 months, 8 weeks, 4 days:

 

This one, I wrote to myself. (A writer can dream, winks.)

 

Dear Emily,

 We’ve received FIVE offers from editors at amazing NYC publishing houses!

 

They love your novel and we’re looking at a significant deal, a multi-book contract and Oprah wants the novel for her book club.

 

Good work! More information to follow,

 

Agent Extraordinaire

 

I came across this quote below, and although I’m spiritual, not religious, I found it beautiful — both reassuring and strengthening. At times it feels like divine intervention alone is how one gets published. Maybe it is. I did do an awful lot of petitioning of my dead friend and dead grandmothers. Sometimes all we want to know is that we’re on the right path.

 

Hope is a golden cord connecting you to heaven.  This cord helps you hold your head up high, even when multiple trials are buffeting you.  I never leave your side, and I never let go of your hand.  But without the cord of hope, your head may slump and your feet may shuffle as you journey uphill with Me. Hope lifts your perspective from your weary feet to the glorious view you can see from the high road.  You are reminded that the road we’re traveling together is ultimately a highway to heaven.  When you consider this radiant destination, the roughness or smoothess of the road ahead becomes much less significant.  I am training you to hold in your heart a dual focus: My continual Presence and the hope of heaven. 

 

Romans 12:12; Thessalonians 5:8; Hebrews 6:18-19.

 

The next is just plain-old lovely. 

 

“Be who God meant you to be,

and you will set the world on fire.”

 

St. Catherine of Sienna

 

I’ve been trying and trying to write this post, to no avail. I’m not one of those writers who (beforehand) imagines writing a post like this. Truth be told, I find myself feeling quite shy about it. How shy? As if I went online at fourteen and announced my first period. Yeah, that shy. 

 

Agent Bob Diforio’s blurb stays in my inbox, also, because after years and years of rejection, I keep reading it as a reality check. To make sure this is real.

 

Christmas came early for debut literary YA novelist Emily Murdoch. In a spirited submission  creating buzz among dozens of editors, publishers and publicity people who quickly read her extraordinary novel, THE PATRON SAINT OF BEANS, it was Jennifer Weis of St. Martin’s who carried the day for North American Rights;  sold by Bob Diforio and Mandy Hubbard of D4EO Literary Agency.

Emily was inspired to write the novel after reading about a mother who kidnapped her son and fled to Brazil. In “Beans”, violin prodigy Carey Blackburn and her mute little sister, Jenessa, have spent their entire lives in a broken-down camper deep in the forest of a national park, forced to cope with their drug-addicted mother only sporadically on hand, until they are rescued by a father they don’t know and learn the truth about their early childhood. As they adjust to the real world of school, malls and other children – especially boys – Carey is weighed down by a dark secret that threatens the only good luck she’s ever known.

A brilliant YA novel with adult cross-over appeal, editors found the work both moving and magical.

I didn’t realize that even praise can take some getting used to. Which is how I came to realize what was holding me back from writing this post: the entanglement of personal and public feelings.

 

Once I agreed to publish, my book became itself — a separate entity increasingly out  of my control. 

 

Let’s look back. I was one of those people admonished as a child for being too sensitive — as if sensitivity were a negative thing. (Sensitive child in your midst? You may just have an artist on your hands. Celebrate that fact, that sensitivity. A child could do worse than to possess a deeply feeling heart.)

 

I’m also one of those people who keeps my feelings close to the vest. And what I feel about selling The Patron Saint Of Beans to St. Martin’s Griffin is a feeling so personal, profound, and public all at the same time, that it remains gestational in its development. For all intensive purposes, it’s a baby novel. I’m a baby author. All the words are new.

 

But what I can articulate is that however many years I’m lucky to live, this will remain one of the most amazingly awesome moments of my life.

 

On to the story.

The two weeks preceding December 19th, 2011 (the date of my sale) were an amazing whirlwind of hope, praise, editor reads and offers, telephone conferences with editors and pinch-me-hard moments.

I was subbed to both adult and young adult editors. I had offers from both adult and young adult editors. At one point, when I thought we’d settled on a publisher/editor and my agents informed the other editors, they said no!

They wouldn’t take no for an answer!

And so more offers came in. A pre-empt came and went. Choices, choices, choices, from no, no, no’s. I felt like a character in a novel whose obstacles had been removed. Reality was so surreal, such a rocket ride, such a blessed, lucky, thank-you-Universe kind of moment, I couldn’t believe it was happening to me.

When I was seven-years-old and in the midst of reading every single book in the elementary school library, I used to imagine my books on the school library shelves, not in the bookstores. Books to transport eager, earnest children into parallel worlds of dark and light. Books poking like crocuses through the snow, opening curious hearts and minds to worlds where underdogs prevailed, where obstacles existed for good reason: to grow a person deeper, stronger, taller. Pages. Places where anything was — IS – possible.

What an amazing thing to be a part of.

If you’d like to add my novel on Goodreads, or friend me, please go here: Goodreads

I believe the good things happen to us so we can pay it forward. A portion of the proceeds of “Beans” will benefit Taylor Hendrix’s Christmas Project.

Sixteen-year-old Taylor, battling osteosarcoma, gathers gifts in backpacks each Christmas to brighten the spirits of cancer teens in hospital over the holidays. For more information, see my previous post: Taylor’s Christmas Project.

Part Two to follow …

Taylor’s Christmas Project.

Taylor Hendrix, with the wild burros of Red Rock.

I kindly need your help:

There’s a lovely sixteen-year-old, Taylor Hendrix, diagnosed with osteosarcoma five years ago. She’s relapsed three times since, and spent the last two Thanksgiving/Christmas’ either in the hospital for low counts, chemo, or both.

Every year she organizes a holiday project wherein she packs backpacks with fun stuff and useful items for teens in the hospital over Christmas.

So, I got to thinking, after reading a few industry blog posts about what to do with ARCs. Wouldn’t it be cool if ARCs could be donated for Taylor’s Christmas Project? Published authors who could part with a copy of their books or an ARC could even sign the inside with a hopeful message. And ARCs could get a second life that way, signed or not.

It’s pretty much perfect because reading may be all these kids can manage when they’re on chemo and nauseated. As it turns out, there are always gifts for the younger children, but the teens can get lost in the shuffle — these very teens us YA writers write for.

You can read more details about the project, here: (Thanks, Tina!)  

Tina Moss, Writer: Taylor’s Christmas Project

Taylor’s mom, Tammy Hendrix, updates Taylor’s journal, here:

 CaringBridge / Taylor Hendrix

You can read Taylor’s early history, here. At the time, she was in remission:

Taylor: My Story

And, for donation questions:  ”All inquiries regarding shirts or help with Taylor’s Christmas Project can be sent to my email at thendrix1964@hotmail.com or by calling my cell phone at 256-335-1593.”

Donations for Taylor’s project can be sent to:

Taylor Hendrix

Christmas Project
1511 Hermitage Drive

Florence, Al 35630

 

Or you can donate through paypal: thendrix1964@hotmail.com to Tammy Hendrix, directly. Tammy helps her daughter with the project each year.

Big thanks to everyone who gets involved. I’ve been following Taylor’s story since just before last Christmas, especially moved by Taylor’s huge heart even in the midst of her own struggles.

Contributions aren’t limited to books or ARCs — you could send a deck of cards, board games, toiletries, nail polish, etc. You could pick up an extra stocking stuffer and donate it to Taylor’s project. Ask yourself: if I had a beloved teen in the hospital over the Christmas holidays, what could I stuff in their backpack to lift their spirits or make life easier?

Even a  tweet on Twitter would help spread the word: 

Taylor’s Christmas Project: http://wp.me/ph3Ax-Uc Help 16 yr old Taylor with gifts/donations 4 teens in-hospital at Xmas. PLS RT!

*Thank you.*

Emily Murdoch

Don’t Edit Out The Best Parts.

Ever notice how when you’re in editing mode, all of life can be edited?

Dog’s hair grown shaggy and uneven? Trim Edit it. The garden, tree limbs thrown everywhere? Edit it. The horses’ manes twisted into baby dreads by monsoon winds? Brush to edit.

I’ve edited radio commercials in my head that, with a few tweaks, sound even stronger. Same goes for television dialogue, presidential speeches, greeting cards, news articles and even the back of the Finesse shampoo bottle. 

In fiction, though, it’s the flaws and imperfections that make for original characters. I’d go even further and not call them flaws, but quirks — self-marks – that lend characters their unique, flesh and blood personas. 

Sometimes real means holding back  – resisting the urge to edit out the rawness and ruin the writing, even if it isn’t perfect. Perfectionism can masquerade as editing. Even worse, it can erase the best part: your voice.

Through your voice, you, the author, are a character in your stories. You leave your ambiance, your mental footprints behind. Too sterile, too perfect, and all is lost.

There’s a fine line — a tightrope walk — between revision –re-visioning — and nervous tinkering.

Grass need mowing? Edit it. Character imperfect, multi-dimensional, heart raw, hair shaggy?

Resist the urge.

Publication’s Bumpy, Winding Road.

Detours? Just another way to get to your destination. By nature, detours are unavoidable twists in the road, and whether you’re querying, out on sub, or working on a WIP, detours may lead to a better destination than the one you originally envisioned.

Truth is, the only thing in a writer’s control is the writing. And the only way to survive the road to publication is to keep the writing front and center. There will be plenty of detours along the way for most of us, which will keep the journey interesting.

Just be sure to hold onto the writing — your love of words and stories — above all else.

Wild Foals Killed By BLM at Triple B Round-up.

 

In my previous post, I’d shared good news for America’s wild mustangs. Unfortunately, the good news was shortlived. The original stay on the Triple B round-up was overturned and is proceding as I write this, including running foals in 94 degree weather until their legs give out. At the link is a video of the round-up which is heartbreaking: horse families separated and screaming to each other; foals limping and later euthanized; water bins blowing over, empty; horses milling about, frightened, confused, their beautiful, wild life over:

Wild Horse Babies Killed by BLM at Triple B Roundup (courtesy of horse lovers and advocates, R T Fitch and Laura Leigh).

There are 30,000 some-odd wild horses left on the range, with more than that number already warehoused in government holding facilities, while millions of cattle graze the horses’ land for a pittance, a practice dubbed “welfare ranching”. The 1971 Wild and Free Roaming Horses and Burros Act protects the horses from this type of harassment. And yet, here we have a round-up resulting in multiple deaths of very young foals and more warehousing of wild horses, which under the act is both prohibited and unlawful.

 What’s the point of enacting laws that are continuously broken, disregarded and ignored? How long will this abuse and harassment of our wild horses go unchecked even by courts of law? 

I dread the day I post that the wild horses are no more. Because if the BLM under the Obama Administration continues with business as usual, that day may not be too far off.

I, for one, shall continue to do what I vowed: to use my writing to lend a voice to those without voices, whether teenaged characters struggling with hard choices, or our wild mustangs, relentlessly targeted for their land and its resources.  

Awareness is the first step toward change. Please help spread the word — so many people are unaware of what’s happening to America’s wild horses — and perhaps our voices will be heard before it’s too late.

Shooting Star, my Nevada wild mustang saved from slaughter.