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(no subject) [Sep. 3rd, 2008|02:27 pm]
Dearest hearts,

August was a momentous month for WriteHigh. On the 22nd, ANN SIDES came to visit the Beverly Hills office with her husband, Randy, and her sister, Kathy Bardsley. Ben, Linda (Coler) Courtney (Selan), the new addition to our PR team, and I shared a delectable lunch with them at Nate’N’Al’s Delicatessen in Beverly Hills. Ann and Randy have recently been repatriated from Athens, where Ann was the Consul General at the U.S. Embassy, to Washington, D.C. Kathy is a writer too, and it was great fun to hear about her children’s book. Each sister claims the other writes better; since Ann writes gritty mysteries, we suspect they’re apples and cashews—each delicious in her own way!

 

Then, on the 23rd, we celebrated the much-anticipated launch of JIM POTTS’s Right to Counsel: A Lawyer’s Struggle to Defend a Serial Killer. It was a glamorous and festive event. Several hundred readers and attorneys (and, we hope, attorney-readers!) gathered at the Altadena Town and Country Club, where Brenda Potts (who now also manages her husband’s book events in inimitable style and grace) had orchestrated the surprise appearance of Dr. Charles Potts, Jim’s older brother, a mathematics genius as well as a medical doctor who came from “back East” to beguile us all with his quirky charm. He wears dreadlocks and has gentle blue eyes and a gentle laugh. He told us he has a thousand handwritten pages of mathematical formulae refuting problems that have made baffled Euclid and his betters through the centuries. Even Ben stroked his chin with respect. Among the guests was the Hon. Terry Bork, who came twice because he thought the event was in the morning, as well as John Hammond of the U.S. Public Defender’s Office, invited by our own Courtney Selan (the most recent addition to our PR team; she's an attorney and a theatrical producer). Marlene Houngbedji of the Library Foundation of Los Angeles made a special detour to meet Jim before going to Palm Springs, so that she could invite him to participate in Véronique Peck’s Literary Feasts later in the year—she was that impressed. (Very famous authors are featured at 50 separate venues, each one in a prominent person’s home.)

LorrieGay Marlow, newly married to her sweetheart, actor Robert Hooks, came with him to honor Jim, for whom she is illustrating a children's book. Can you imagine? A partnership between Jim and Lorrie is bound to be winner. But going from a serial killer to a story of myth and miracle is... well, pure Jim. The Cobbler is a wonderful story, and Susan and I are proud to represent it.

On hand were Sharon Goldstein and Kathleen Piché, with her fiancé, Jonathan Masters. Scott Bly, our friend whose novel is coming out from Scholastics next year, graced us with his presence because he wanted to meet Jim and participate in the festivities; his own book is a Potteresque time-travel save-the-world caper that we'll all enjoy, sold by my good friend Deb Warren, who sent Scott to a gal pal of hers to fix her computer a couple of years ago. The gal pal was a top editor with Scholastics, who listened to his fantastical explanations of how computers work. "Could you maybe write a novel?" she asked. And the rest is history. We love this story. But then, we love Scott. He also writes the most amazing music!

 

Jim gave a brilliant talk, captured on videotape. He has such remarkable ease in front of crowds…. I introduced him, telling the story of how the book sold in two days. He was so humble and sweet in thanking everyone at WriteHigh, from Susan and me, to Ben and Joel (Coler), who unfortunately had not been able to attend. But Joel had sent Linda and Courtney in his stead, and they collected praises on his behalf. Jim amused the crowd by detailing how I'm the nice one but Susan… well, Susan is “just plain mean.” She’s a mean editor, and it was her meanness that had sharpened his skills, he stated. Afterward, people lined up to ask Susan to be mean to them.

 

After Jim sold and signed 125 out of 125 books (Barnes and Noble, present for the occasion, has probably never occasioned such a stupendous record at a book signing!), and we had eaten gigantic shrimp, feasted on huge slices of gooey Brie, and scarfed down yummy quesadillas, the beleaguered country-club help gently eased us out. Then Jim invited 25 of us to dinner at El Cholo in Pasadena. Is that gallant, or what?


At dinner Ben, Susan and her significant other, handsome Mike King, and I sat with Muffye and Patrick Dingle. Pat Dingle was the detective who captured the rapist-murderer, Michael Dee Mattson, who is the subject of Jim’s book. Pat and Jim have become great friends. Pat regaled everyone with wonderful tales from being “on the Job.” Now the Dingles own and operate the Las Vegas Zoo. Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire! (We have a photograph of a LION trying to eat Pat's ARM!) Another guest was attorney Ron Smith, who began this entire odyssey by inviting Jim, then a law clerk, to assist him on the appeals case that Jim eventually helped win. Ron read the book in a single night and praised Jim for writing it exactly as it occurred back in the Seventies.

It was a lovely evening, warm with good stories and friendship for Jim. It was nice to finally meet Mike, Susan's very tall gentleman friend, who appears to adore her, and to put faces to names rendered famous in Jim's book. We look forward to a bestseller.

And now it's time to go back to work, you guys!

Loving you madly,

Monique (and the Mean One, Susan)

 

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The Moon in June... [Jun. 23rd, 2008|07:32 pm]

Dearest hearts,

So much has happened! Let's begin with the wonderful. Caroline and Greg Koch became the proudest parents in the universe on June 3. Their little boy's name is River Hayden. He's utterly and unutterably beautiful. I think he is the spitting image of Care, but everyone else seems to think he looks just like Greg. What I find heartwarming is how moved and thrilled Greg is while holding his son. Care is, well, jubilant. They make funny faces at River to mimic the funny faces River makes at them. Hmmm... I have to take a trip up there very quickly to teach that kid Latin. Otherwise, my two brilliant writers are going to go gaga on me, and we can't have that.

It didn't happen with Kim Greene, so I shouldn't worry. Grady Greene turned one year old this weekend. Can anyone believe this? I can't. He was an embryo just seconds ago! What's amazing is that Mom Kim is a Size 0 again (see, Caroline-- it won't be long!). Kill her! Papa Todd was terrific at the party, grilling hotdogs in 102-degree weather for a crowd of about fifty adults and as many toddlers and not once losing his smile. In fact, I didn't hear whining, and I didn't hear crying from even one kid there. Everyone was behaving. Even the in-laws. It was a great party, and what, to me, topped off the fun, was that when we got home and opened up our goody bag... there was, nestled among the edibles, a rubber ducky. I collect rubber duckies. They're in my bathroom among the antique combs, the Annick Goutal perfumes, and the serious "madame" stuff. Now tell me, a lady can't survive without her rubber duckies, can she? What would she put in her bath after the salts, the bubbles, and the oils? Herself, well, yeah. But... apres? The James Brown rubber ducky is my pride and joy; even Kim doesn't own one of those!

Moving on to a slightly older crowd, our adorable LorrieGay Marlow is now Mrs. Robert Hooks. Well, if an ardent feminist can actually allow me to give her such an antiquated title, to tell you that on Sunday, June 15, she married her sweetheart, actor/political activist Robert Hooks, who starred in "NYPD" on television, in "Raisin in the Sun" on Broadway, and in perhaps sixty-five other major productions and films. And those were only the MAJOR ones!!! He co-founded the Negro Ensemble Company and is writing his memoir-- with Lorrie as his co-author. The two were married in Florida so that Lorrie's mother could enjoy the experience and invite friends and family close to where she lives. 

Okay, so you guys and dolls are thriving. Now, what about Peter, Susan and me? Peter just finished his own book, and we're about to launch it. When he feels comfortable discussing it, we'll tell you about it, so until then, please don't ask him about it; he's a first-time writer and feels the usual trepidation. Susan has been doing a fabulous job seconding me in Los Angeles. Et moi...? The time I'm not working on your books, I'm trying to figure out what my next book is going to be. Bubble baths with duckies in them are great for pondering magna opera, though Dawn thinks one should do this between laundry loads.

The BEA was a tremendous success. How it will pan out remains to be seen. We found out that our dear friend, Michele Matrisciani, Editorial Director of HCI, is not only remarried, but pregnant! What a joy for Susan and me, who have known her since she was a baby editor at McGraw. Her delectable new husband is a babe. His name is Matthew Rottoni, as in "sono buoni." This one is molto buono.

I have to speak to you again about your manuscripts. We are receiving queries from writers who claim that they have submitted to other agents before us. These agents submitted the manuscripts in questions to editors; what were they thinking? When Susan and I look over the work, we shake our heads. Peter erroneously told a young writer that I am the Grammar Maven and that I "place form before content." This is not true!!! But I do place form in high (High!) regard. Come on! Be respectful! If you expect me to submit to an editor, know that I will not do so unless every comma is in place. These writers wonder why their previous agents failed. There were other problems, but sloppiness of manuscript is unacceptable to a self-respecting editor, just as mass queries are to a self-respecting agent. This is why I am constantly urging you to go over your prose.

When writing dialogue, please check your Dialogue Style Sheets from WriteHigh. In short, this is how you write dialogue (as some of you keep making errors):

"Hello, Jane," said Henry. (Sentence ends.) "Let's go home.

"Hello, Jane," said Henry, "and now, let's go home." (The sentence continued. There was no period, and the "and" was lower-cased.)

In either situation, there was a comma inside the quotation mark, and the "said" was lowe-cased. Many of you still write: "Hello, Jane." Said Henry. This is wrong, and I have to ask: you read a million books, containing dialogue. Wherever have you read such tags???

The difference between a tag line and a Gesture Line is that a tag verb and "said" can be interchanged:

"Hello, Jane," coughed Henry.

A tag line is never a sentence. A Gesture Line is a complete sentence, and describes what a character is doing, not saying. You can't substitute "said" for the verb. Therefore, you don't use a comma. It's a fully autonomous sentence:

"Hello, Jane." Henry stood up and began to pace.

Please also remember that when you call out to someone-- in Latin, the vocative-- you need to bracket the direct address by commas: "Hello, Jane." "Hi, Monique." But not "Dear Monique." That's not an address. "Dear" is simply an adjective.

These are important rules I keep marking up in your manuscripts, but that you keep forgetting, my dearest darlings!

I am very, very proud of Holly for starting the chat room for all of you. And to those of you who have responded and joined in. I'm sorry for the problems with Nick's newsletters. I hope that's all been resolved now. Let's leave this sort of thing for the chat room, maybe. Ask before sending material to one another. This will help protect everyone's privacy int he future.

Much love, and keep cool,

Your bookshrink

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GOODBYE, DUTTON'S, and Hello, Rollina [Apr. 30th, 2008|06:01 pm]
Dearest hearts,

Today, hundreds of writers and authors in Los Angeles are probably writing goodbye blogs about Dutton's Bookstore in Brentwood. Dutton's was so important to publishing that its closing has been discussed in Publishers Weekly, Publishers Marketplace, and Galley Cat. Everyone who's anyone in our biz knows Doug Dutton and what he's done for readers with his beautiful bookstore, and those of us, like me, who are authors probably have stories to tell about how he, and/or his parents, helped establish their careers. The passing of this store is like a death to us, the death of an old, beloved friend we knew and depended on visiting regularly. It was like my Aunt Mitzi in New York. I adored her, and so did my college friends. We all used to descend upon her and ask her to make Viennese coffee when we went shopping or had a museum day. She told great stories, and she made us laugh. Dutton's was every writer's bookstore, and Doug and his staff had every type of book we ever thought we could need.

When I published my first novel, "The Four Winds of Heaven," in 1980, the Delacorte salesman, a big, burly fellow, took me around to meet Doug's parents. He explained to me that without their support, I would never be able to get a bestseller. The image of their store, in North Hollywood, remains imprinted in my brain. I was young and wore high heels and a narrow skirt, the absolute wrong outfit for going all over the Valley touring bookstores. Thelma and William were infinitely kind to me and told me how much they had loved my book and that they would personally recommend it to their readers. (Imagine anyone saying this in a Borders?)

Later, Doug showed the same kindness. Every time one of my books came out, he would schedule a book signing, and these events would be as gracious and pleasant as if a wealthy uncle had given a party. When I became a manager and then an agent, he extended the same demeanor toward all of you. He was proud to be part of your careers-- of all of our careers.

The Brentwood store was like a small enclave of my European childhood. We could wander from room to room and meet again in the courtyard. How very Italian! We always seemed to run into friends. The staff members were literate, often writers themselves. The last event I attended was when my Barnard friend Kathy Seal's book recently came out: " Pressured Parents, Stressed-Out Kids." A former student of mine, Susan Lindau, happened to attend, and it was pure joy to run into her by happenstance! That's the sort of place this was; you went there for one reason and ended up having a good time for all sorts of appended motives. And walked out with books you never even knew existed. In my case, dictionaries. I can't resist them; they're like chocolate.

We Beverly Hillsians were so thrilled when Doug opened a store near us on Canon Drive. It had a different feel, modern and "edgy." More signings occurred, as you will recall. And when the store closed, due to economics, we were sad but not, somehow, devastated. After all, going from BH to Brentwood was only a fifteen-minute drive. And we hadn't actually fallen in love. Only in like.

Doug doesn't blame the developer, Charles Munger. It's just the way things go, the way the cookie crumbles in LA. I remember another bookstore that used to sell my books, The Book Nook, near where my mother and father lived in Santa Monica. It wasn't far from Dutton's, in the Brentwood Mart, and Joe, the owner, loved my mother and me. When that store closed, a sadness enveloped me, and I wondered if we were really at the beginning of something irreversible. 

It turns out that I was right. 

As an agent, even an author, I shouldn't cry. I should be thrilled about Barnes & Noble, and want all of you to be stocked there like sardines, and preferably offered on sale to be redeemed with coupons. Otherwise, how will you-- or I!--make our money? But, honestly, where's the charm in that?

This past weekend, I went to pay a final call on the bookstore, and it was boarded up like a tenement, with no books left to speak of. I found one old copy of a mystery I hadn't read yet by my friend, Hallie Ephron, third daughter among that talented foursome spearheaded by Nora. Hallie was in my class at Barnard (a phrase you've all come to get used to--and rightly so: many of the talented women I know do come from my graduating college class).  It seemed fitting that my final purchase should be part sentiment, part actual desire to read. 

We had spoken to Doug at the official ceremony in March; he was nowhere to be seen on Sunday.

And so it is here that I say goodbye. And thank you.

                                                                                                                          *** 

On a much less nostalgic note, in fact, a burst of total brightness, I would like to introduce you all to our latest WriteHigh client. She is "La perla nera," the Black Pearl," and, as you ladies know, black pearls are among the rarest and most valuable. ("La Perla Nera del Boss" happens also to be the title of her new book, and our little joke.)

Meet Rollina Freitase Loukouzi Bitanguila. She's 26, and she's from Brazzaville in the Congo. She's a high-fashion model, a mommy (she has two absolutely gorgeous children, Stella and Tony), and she lives in Italy near Lake Como in a small town named Cernobbio (close to Milan).  Her first novel appeared in Italian, published by Borelli, and is called "The Erotic Adventures of a Fashion Model." "I'm going to be writing more serious fiction," Rollina says. "Once I had my daughter, I discovered writing, and it became my passion." 

Rollina was brought up speaking French, which is how we communicate. My Italian is good enough, and I read it fluently. But it's been years since I was doing comp lit at Columbia. I read her first book without once using the dictionary, though, and was so excited that I couldn't wait to share the news with my father. The next time we went to dinner with my parents, I of course grabbed "Le avventure." Ben stared at me, dumbfounded. This is a rather racy book. He asked: "Why are you taking Rollina's book with you?"

"To show Daddy how well I was doing. You know, he reads and writes in 11 languages without any help whatsoever. And gives speeches!"

Ben shook his head. "I think NOT," he said. His wisdom prevailed.

Rollina's English is cute. She understands, but wants to improve. And, of course, she wants to come here to visit. A pub deal would help.

But then, pub deals would help us all. One great big pub party, and we'd all be invited.

Which leads me to just that: Saturday, August 23, Jim and Brenda Potts will be launching "RIGHT TO COUNSEL"! And it will be a very big deal! More later, as Peter says.

For Pete's sake...

So perhaps we can even inveigle Rollina to come to the US for the party. And John-o (John-o Saxon), you can come, too, from the Land of Shakespeare. And Giuseppe and his hundred and twenty-three animals! (Isn't it rather a coincidence that both our Italian clients live roundabout Milan?) Sound the clarion: we shall have a celebration for Jim!

Meanwhile, though, Hali, Susan and I shall be attending, on your behalf, the redoubtable Book Expo America. More on that after it takes place at the end of the month. 

                                                                                                                     ***

So, while we said our farewells to a magnificent old friend, we also greeted a vital young woman wishing to enter the turbulent publishing world. It seems ironic that my grandson, Evan, is turning seven tomorrow. He tells a story about everything, even the way our brain controls how we move our hands and feet. He's a born weaver of tales, an unstoppable mixer of sagacity and silliness, science and magic. Seven used to be called the Age of Reason. It's also one year of a dog's life, or is it the opposite? But I am waiting for the day when he pushes me aside and declares that he has something to tell you, and that his information is more valuable than mine. Like the developer who wishes to tear down Dutton's because it is no longer appropriate to the times, perhaps Evan will find my knowledge archaic. I hope not. I hope, instead, that he will add his stories to mine, and to yours.

Shakespeare in the Sky would like that, wouldn't he?
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Let's Talk About Writerly Stuff [Mar. 12th, 2008|08:51 pm]
[Tags|, ]

Purring away...



Here are some of my all-time favorite sayings on writing, books, and writers. I love them, and trust that you will, too. 



"If you wish to to be writer, write." Epictetus (My favorite. I dismissed a client I had coached, with much love on both sides, for a number of years. He had a lot of trouble writing, but not for lack of talent or because he lacked ideas. No, he simply couldn't organize his daily and weekly habits. We worked on this, and he didn't really improve. At long length, I realized that by being "understanding," I was enabling his lack of productivity. He's a genius; I'm still hoping he'll come back to me with a good book.)

...Speaking of which:



"Beware of the man of one book." Benjamin Disraeli (Ben and I have nothing to worry about; we own 4,000, as most of you know, and as my profile here in livejournal.com will tell you if you don't already know this. But I speak to you as your agent, and I mean: of one book inside you, as an author.)  

"The limits of your language are the limits of your world." Ludwig Wittgenstein (I broke off my engagement to a well heeled Beverly Hills businessman who used to say: "between you and I," "irregardless of what I think," and the all-time class marker, "anyways."  Gag me with a spoon!!!!)
 
"It is with books as with men: a very small number play a very large part." Voltaire 

"When inspiration does not come to me, I go halfway to meet it." Sigmund Freud 

"Literature is news that stays news." Ezra Pound (This is very cool.)

"A house without books is like a room without windows." Horace Mann (So our house is entirely made of glass. Don't throw rocks at it, okay?)

These are, as Julie Andrews sang, some of my favorite things. Keep them for yourselves (but do share them with friends!), pin them to your own bulletin boards, as I have, and treasure them for life. I smile every time I look at one these. 

                                                                                        

The authors who penned the above came by their thoughts honestly. They didn't pretend to have lived with wolves during the Holocaust, branding themselves wartime Romuli and Remi. They didn't make up a childhood that wasn't theirs, nor an ancestry more exotic, more troubled, or poorer than their own. Gosh... am I perhaps thinking of Misha Defonseca, and LA's own Margaret Seltzer? While we're on the topic of writers (you! me!), we need to tackle the subject of the now-prevalent Fake Memoir. Jennifer O'Connell (that's Jennifer Oliver, Mrs. Lynn O'Connell) and my college friend, the memoirist and nonfiction author Kathy Seal, are genuinely worried that the major scandal brewing right now in our publishing world is going to affect any honest memoirist about to present a manuscript to editors.

So, as Joan Rivers likes to say, let's twawk. About this fake memoir thingee. 

There's a big difference between a Fake memoir and a Pseudo-Memoir. Take, for example, our own Andrew Kirby's charming "Minus Two-Oh-Two." It's about a young geneticist living in Wellesley, MA, who works in a lab. Or Rollina Loukouzi's "Erotic Memoirs of a Model," published by Borelli Editori in Italy. That's a novel! Yes, she's a model living in Milan, and yes, she came over from the Congo Democratique; but no, in real life, she's not about to tell you, or anyone else, about her sex life, like her character, Valerie. These are pseudo-memoirs. 

Pseudo-memoirs are penned in first person, and if they are any good, sound like a real memoir. Often, the protagonist shares some characteristics with the author. This is especially true when the book is a first novel. First-time novelists rely on what they know; this is natural. Then, of course, there are novels "based on a true story," and their authors take liberties, which readers should expect. Our Stable member, Shirley Hairston, wrote a beautiful novel, "The Silk Box," based on her parents' love story during the Korean War. But she took many liberties. She doesn't expect editors to consider the book 100% fact. It's not a biography of her parents, and we're not marketing it as such. She's not lying about inventing certain subplots or supporting characters. 

A fake memoir is one in which the author pretends that what he has written is the truth. He pretends it to his agent, his editor, and the media. He pretends it to his readers. He has cloaked himself, or herself, in such a web of lies that his persona has become his person. James Frey was the first of today's slew of fake memoirists, but he was certainly not the first ever. The Los Angeles Times mentions a minor actress named Joan Lowell who told of sailing the high seas with her sea-captain father from her earliest babyhood. It wasn't true.

We all love a good story, and we all love distress. Much more so, in fact, than easy-peasy happiness and lives that show no opposition. When we get together with our friends, we chat about the terrible problems Jimmy is having with Susan. Why else would Britney Spears be followed around to such an extent? The Dark Side is such a delicious treat. And the eternal question: will our heroine (or our hero) ever make it back to the top, is what drives us to keep reading the tabloids (or to have dinner with Jimmy and Susan). 

Peter Jaeger harps on two matters: that you all need PLATFORMS, and that first novels are very difficult to sell. If you go to the "Joel and Linda" section of "THE TEAM" on our website, you will read what they have to say about Platform, profile, building up who you are so that it's easier to sell your book. Peter's the one in New York (Deb Mohr charmingly has renamed him "Peter-in-New-York") who has to meet with editors every week, and when all he has in hand is a naked manuscript, he's met with gimlet eyes. (No, not with a drink, but with steely eyes that chill his soul.) They want to know who our writer is, and what makes him unique. Who are you? What have you done before? Have you published anything at all, and technical manuals don't count? Does your book connect in any way to your other accomplishments? Is your book going to be significantly different from all others in its genre? (My first novel was based on the journals kept by my grandmother, a Russian baroness, whose father was translator to the Tzar. Had this not been the case, my book would probably never have been published, not matter how "lovely" or "charmingly written," or how authentic the characters. My publisher used to dress me up as my grandmother.)  But first novels being so difficult to sell... he needs a platform for all of you, and you have to help him... authentically. 

That's where the "plus" is where you WriteHigh memoirists are concerned. You're covered! No need to worry. You've been working with us, and if an editor asks, Peter will tell him/her that we've known you for quite some time, and that you are authentic.

But the question remains: why are we hungry for any "true" story that makes us wonder how crazy we are for believing it?

Aren't we often crazy when friends lie to us?

I've believed tall tales my friends have told me. They've embellished their love stories, their job stories, even how many pounds they've lost.

I've come home telling my husband fairytale love affairs that couldn't possibly exist. He's asked me which meteor just fell on my head. 

I always believe my friends. That's why I'm still their friend. Sally is not a Size 2, but I'll staunchly believe it even though she shops at Chico.

I'm not my friends' agent, though. They don't write these tales as fact. These chatty "lies" are girl "exaggerations" over dinner.

The public is hungry for anything gory, fancy, amazing, fantastic, and different from his/her/your/my normal existence. Let's face it, I don't run drugs for the Bloods. (My husband has defended some Bloods, though, but I've never had them over for tea.) I'm not a transsexual (though I've had a hermaphrodite student). I've never counted wolves among my friends (cats, yes; they sometimes behave as wolves: check out my forearms, if you please). I have dated aristocrats and ne'erdo-wells, my husband has a tattoo, and I was once, to my utter dismay, fixed up with a married dwarf. Apart from that, my life has been of the hum-drum way-too-normal variety, and I love to read (hence, our 4,000 volumes) about what's different from me. So does my husband, who, in the daily course of his existence, runs into far more "exciting" material than I do. 

We both love memoirs. We love them for what we learn from their authors. How do you overcome a difficult childhood? How do you live through illness? What makes you a hero?

You love them, too. Some of your are heroes. Barbara Kessler is my hero. Writing with grace about a horrific experience takes courage and  grit. When someone pretends to have undergone pain and abuse, this person steals from those who have truly suffered. Barbara, Jennifer, the true memoirists among us, surely feel robbed and "ripped off." And rightly so. Fake memoirists steal from everyone--those of us who read, expecting truth, and those who suffer and write the truth, hoping to be published.

Yes, the public wants to be transported out of its normal, humdrum stasis. But we don't want to be ripped off. We love our novels and our television "Sex and the City," "Law and Order," "Cashmere Girls." But we don't want to find out we've wept over the wrong medium. That's taking us for idiots, and playing us. I've told my writers--you--for years, never, ever to treat your readers like idiots. Eventually, it will come back to haunt you. It's come back to haunt Frye, Seltzer, and their cohorts.

But for Jennifer, Barbara, my friend Kathy Seal... you're covered. You have back-up. Your agents know who you are. We'll vouch for you.

Real memoirists won't suffer; only the fakes and hoaxes.

Keep writing.

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(no subject) [Feb. 29th, 2008|11:22 pm]
Mes chéris,

Two thousand eight is an exciting new year, and WriteHigh is poised, as always at the forefront of the publishing industry. At least, we try to remain this way. A couple of years ago, a friend of mine said to me, "There's no hope for your agency. The world is turning to Internet books; why even bother to try so hard to get your clients published the old-fashioned way?"

I was appalled. (Peter is forever laughing at me for being "appalled." But, yes, I am frequently appalled. Oftentimes I am appalled at bad grammar. But this time, I was appalled that she would be so cynical.) I was brought up on the heady scent of new books, and how unparalleled it was as an intoxicant; my mother had grown up intoxicated by this scent, and passed it on. I can remember how my grandparents would spend summers in the South of France pulling me, literally, out of my books-- the classics, Nancy Drew ("Caroline Quine," if you pleeze)... anything that was caught between two paper covers. They thought I needed to swim and, for heaven's sake, learn to play tennis so that I would eventually be invited to the proper parties. (This latter dream was was shattered when the instructor told my grandfather that he was wasting his money on my lessons.) In the late Sixties, when White Rabbit became the synonym for other intoxicants, I remained intoxicated by the scent of books. It's never been dispelled. I told my friend that no matter what happens, the Internet will never replace real books. People will not stop wanting to prop a book between their knees and read it in bed, and little girls the world over will scream, "Ten more minutes, Mom!" just as I used to, squirming beneath the sheets with their flashlight to avoid maternal vigilance and curfew.

Shelly Li, our teenage science fiction firebrand, tells me that perhaps I am hopelessly left behind, and that my friend had-- and has-- a point. "Cell phone books are really popular in school now among teenagers," she told me.

"Really?" I asked. "Isn't it difficult to read a whole book on such a small screen?"

"We're used to it," she explained. "We text, don't forget."

Ah, yes. Texting. Hali, who's young and efficient, can draft a letter to a top editor, speak on the telephone to another, and text her boyfriend while all this is going on-- with one hand. The texting, that is. I'm amazed. So, yes, I "get" it. I asked Shelly to compose a piece for us about the new cell phone books, and so, she did. Here it is. It will give you a whole new insight into teenage culture, but as you read it, please remember that it was written by an AP student who hopes to go to Harvard, Berkeley, or Stanford-- this week.

A Ten-Minute Preview of Present-Day High School
by Shelly Li


“Dude, what are you reading?” my friend Taylor asks as she leans over my shoulder.

I pull my cell phone out from under the desk and flash her for just a second. Mrs. Baconburger, our history teacher—we call her Burger Butt, might be looking out way.

Skimming over the writing on the cell phone, Taylor finally begins to smile. “Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight,” she says. “She’s awesome.”

I smile my thanks, and, noticing the new iPod nano hidden in her hands, ask, “What are you watching?” I look up and notice just a hair of the headphone wire tucked behind her ear.
“Fool’s Gold,” Taylor answers with a smirk. “I got it at www.stealmoviesfromtheatres.com. Matthew Mcconaughey is sooo hot!”
“I know. Yesterday—” I stop when my peripherals catch Burger Butt easing her wide load off the seat of her chair.

Later, I mouth to Taylor, and we both begin to bury ourselves in our entertainment as Burger Butt opens her mouth to speak. “Hello, class. How were your weekends?” she asks. Apparently, she can’t hear the different beeps and clicks of cell phones around the room. About half of us are texting, the other half reading or watching a movie.
Pat, the skater boy/jock sitting next to me—he’s kind of stupid, the only sophomore in our freshman class—is into Stephen King. Like, way off the deep end “into.”
Anyway, I peek under the desk, and guess what I find? He’s reading King’s newest book, The Duma Key.

“Is that good?” I ask him.

Pat grunts.

“Stephen King scares me.”

Pat shrugs. Real social bee, he is. Life of the party.

“Joey, please take your hat off,” Burger Butt’s shrill cuts through our one-sided conversation. “This is class, not a football game. Anyway, today I have a surprise for you!”

About eighty percent of the class’s eyes dart up for about a second in response to her comment before continuing to entertain themselves with the object under the desk.

“Today, we’re going to watch a movie about WWII. We’re also…”
Burger Butt’s voice begins to fade out, and I only catch a few words here and there. “Sit tight… I… after… we’ll…”

Oh, yeah. She’s lost me.

I slouch farther down in my seat, cross my legs and dive into Twilight as a bomb is dropped on Nagasaki.

The point here, folks, is this: out of twenty kids in a classroom, ten prefer reading CELL PHONE books. Many people would ask, “Why? The screens are so small, and they hurt my eyes.” That may be true, but nowadays, high school kids have iPods, itty-bitty cell phones, the Zune, and many other gadgets that we play with under the desks. We’ve grown accustomed to seeing words and pictures that way. Also, when in a restaurant or a place where you must sit still and wait for ten to twenty minutes, it is much easier to whip out your cell phone and read a few pages than to carry a book along with you.

Hmm… will cell phone books start to take over paper books? Maybe not now, but we will arrive there soon.

***

...We have a new client. Dawn Rinken is from Kentucky, across the border from Cincinnati. I call her our Snow White, because she has a Prince Charming (husband Mike) and seven Dwarves. Her seven dwarves have not altered her cute appearance. I'm astonished. A mother of seven is supposed to be dumpy, frumpy, always in a bad mood, and, well, you get the idea. Dawn's cute and full of resourcefulness. "The Mexican Standoff," her mystery, kept me surprised, so much so that whenever the plot twisted, I sputtered. I'm used to plots. I predict them. I figured out how Alex knows everything about Paul on the new water-cooler show on HBO, "In Treatment," when so many of my friends haven't a clue. They're too busy drooling over Gabriel Byrne. (I'm drooling, too, but I've picked up all the clues.) But Dawn left me speechless. And Peter will tell you that this is a rarity.

Welcome, Dawn! We won't sing The Four Seasons song, "Dawn, go away, I'm no good for you!" because we hope we'll be very good for you. All of us, as a writing family. You can welcome Dawn at drinken@therinkens.com.

Shelly asked me a very open-ended question. "Explain the comma to me," she said. I have always maintained great intimacy with this punctuation mark. In fact, I've always felt that I should have a huge brass comma over my front door. I love the comma. Because all of you-- yes, all of you! -- have trouble with it, I told Shelly that I would address the Great Comma Question in the blog. Therefore, here are some basic Comma Pointers (though by no means all of them, as the Comma is way too vast a subject to be covered in a single blog entry):

-- Use the comma between two independent clauses joined by a conjunction. An independent clause is like a complete sentence; it has a subject and a verb and can stand alone. A conjunction is a word such as "and," "but," "or," or "yet." If you don't use the comma, you create what editors call a RUN-ON sentence. But if you OMIT THAT CONJUNCTION, you create a "comma splice." Here's a comma-spliced sentence: "I went to the market, I saw Jane there buying milk." Here is a correct sentence using the comma: "John went to the store, and Mary greeted him from behind the counter." Many of you think it's all right to omit the comma here, but it's really incorrect. Copy editors will catch you, in spite of the fact that some book authors write their sentences that way.

-- Another is when you bracket an appositive. An appositive occurs in other languages, too. It's when you say: "My friend, the tailor, is here." You need to bracket the descriptive between commas. Sometimes if the descriptive is very short, you can skip it. But only if the descriptive is a name, for example: "My cousin John came for dinner." You all need to commit the APPOSITIVE rule to memory.

-- The comma is used with lists. "She was beautiful, kind, witty, and gentle." It is optional whether or not to use the comma before the final "and." I always use it. I love the rhythm. Peter says I overuse commas, but I heartily disagree.

-- Here's where never to use the comma, and where that idiot, the Spell-Check Grammar Tool in Microsoft Word, which you should just about ALWAYS ignore, tells you to do so: after a "but" or an "and" at the beginning of a sentence. When you are writing a parenthetical relative clause (which cannot stand alone), however, and this follows an "and" or "but" or "yet," you will wish to use a comma: "She always wanted to write novels, and, once she had this opportunity, she became a very skillful writer."

-- When you are giving a list that is involved and complex, and it requires phrases and clauses, rather than simple words, this requires use of the semi-colon, except for the very last item: "We wish for you to bring the following items: ribbons for tying back hair; magic markers that will fit inside your purse; red ski socks; Girl Scout cookies for every child in the cabin, and rag dolls with button eyes." This is a difficult one, and if you make this mistake, it's forgivable.

That should do it, for a start.

It's late. There are zombie movies to watch and very smart books to read. Which shall I do? Hmm...

You tell me.

Je vous embrasse,

Monique
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Welcome to Three New Clients! A Shakespearean Mixup...And More Syntax... [Feb. 3rd, 2008|05:08 pm]
Dearest Hearts,

Writing this blog is truly one of the pleasures of running WriteHigh. And today, on Superbowl Sunday, while America remains glued to the exploits of the Giants and the Patriots, I am glued to the exploits of three absolutely lovely writers: DEB MOHR, MICHAEL KLEIN, and JOHN SAXON.

It isn't that I don't like sports. Don't get me started. As a small girl in Paris, my daddy ("mon Papa cheri") faithfully took me to watch soccer games with him every Sunday. I love soccer, and loved being initiated into the game by him. (The Giants are his team, and he's thrilled they've made it this far, by the way.) He knows everything there is to know about any and every type of sport in the entire world. If you ask him who's on first in a tiny town in Guatemala, he'll tell you. So, I learned to love sports from him.

I love baseball, and I love basketball; Ben made sure of that, by telling me colorful stories about the players, knowing that it was through story that he would win me over to the game. He became my personal Scheherazade. He and Joyce Carol Oates won me over to boxing. But I could never get into football (the U.S. version: big guys with helmets and shoulder pads). When I was at Barnard and my best friend was dating a Yale football player, I was completely befuddled when he appeared one day without his uniform. I stared at his torso. He asked: "What's the matter?" I said: "Where are... your shoulders?" Everyone else started laughing at the silly little French girl, but I still didn't get it. And now, my New York partner turns out to have been an All American football player in high school! (That's our Peter, you guys!)

Sigh...

So, am I to blame because my friend divorced the Yale football player? Because his shoulders weren't wide enough in real life...? (Great metaphor, huh?)

Okay: DEB MOHR. Her novel, "The Flume Tender's Daughter," is set just before the First World War, in 1911, when women had no right even to think about the A-word (abortion, not adultery). But Linnie Bede, her finely-wrought character, did. After the youngest of her sisters is born "not quite right," and she watches her mother sink into depression from too many children, she joins a friend and begins teaching women how to avert pregnancy. Set in the West, this beautiful novel rips aside any hint of a screen between author and reader, as we enter Linnie's life, feel her fears, fall in love right alongside her... and suffer the injustices to which she is subjected.

Deb is married to a retired professor, Fred Mohr, who spent his career with the University of Oregon in Eugene, where the two live. He taught chemistry for a number of years and was then asked to join the administration. For the past eight years, he's been teaching math and calculus part-time at the local community college and at a private school, Oakhill. She has two adult children and one who is deceased from her late husband, an architect. She and Fred are "fanatic foodies," she says, and love music.

Deb is the author of the novel "Winds of Sorrow, Winds of Joy" (Kensington - 1991). What an interesting coincidence, as my first novel was "The Four Winds of Heaven." We were meant to be, weren't we? She has also won a number of writing awards (see her Client Page on our website).

Another "cosmic coinckidinck," as Peter calls them: we both alternate between red and black spectacles. Cool, huh? (Yes, you are now rolling your eyes.)

MICHAEL KLEIN and I have something else in common—Columbia University. He's a Professor of International Economics at Tufts University, and his previous books have been erudite and scholarly. The one he submitted to us is pure, unadulterated fun. It's a novel called "Something for Nothing," and tells the story of a young professor out of Columbia (where else?!) looking for accreditation, validation, and love. Ben said: "It's chick-lit, even though the protagonist is a guy." I came back with: "But it's a novel of irony!" Well, folks, it's both. Which is why it got to us in a big way. David Fox is simply too winsome, and the young fellow from the religious academy who interfaces with him... Well, okay, I won't ruin it for you. The characters are rich, the tale is delightful, and we like the author a great deal. It's simply wonderful when we have the chance to banter with clients who have wit and knowledge, but who are also self-aware. Too often, when we receive queries, we are bombarded with bombast (and I am being alliterative on purpose, which they wouldn't be).

Last, but in no way least, is John Saxon. I am delivering him last because he comes with a story. (Yes, I know... everything comes with a story. But wait, this is an especially good one, worthy of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night" or "As You Like It." And you WILL like it.) So, here goes:

Those of you who know me well may remember that I am a member of the Academy (of Motion Pictures, etc., which votes for the Oscars). One of its perks is that we get to go to the beautiful, red-velvet theatre in Beverly Hills every weekend to watch movies. Believe it or not, we're the youngsters. Little old people the size of elves sit in front of us, and nobody is allowed to eat anything. No popcorn, no slurpy Pepsi! Taller people ask you politely if they might block your view. (HUH?) LorrieGay Marlow, our client, is also a member. And you make friends. Ben and I made friends long ago with John Saxon, that fabulous actor from "Blackboard Jungle." (If you're over forty, or like old movies, your heart will throb.)

Some time ago, John started chatting with Ben about writing. It sounded interesting. Then, last June, I received an email, and it was from John. He asked if he might show me his work, and to my surprise, it wasn't a memoir, it was a fully-developed Science Fiction thriller entitled "The Descendants." I answered: "For you, of course!"

He answered, quite courteously, "How kind of you, and how gallant. Other agents aren't so forthcoming."

I made some funny answer. He did, too. And this banter continued for about three weeks. During the summer, John makes a number of films abroad. Still, the tone of John's emails still seemed a bit "off."

After about three weeks, I said: "When are you going to show me your work?" and he emailed back, "It takes a while to mail a typescript from the UK." ("Typescript"? We say "manuscript.")

At that point, a flashbulb went off: this was a completely different John Saxon!!! But, what turns out to be funny is that he had a great admiration for the actor, and had been previously subjected to the "John Saxon/John Saxon" confusion. We all laughed. And he sent us one of the best submissions ever.

"The Descendants" takes the theme of Genesis 6:1-4 : "When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose," and weaves about it a marvelous story about the final two Descendants of this fateful union. Daniel is fleeing from a horrible government agency in London that has tracked him down, which uses the twin from which he was separated as an infant. And Jim Malone, the man into whose house he has come crashing, must elect whether or not to become the "reluctant hero" who will help him to get away....

Our JOHN SAXON is younger, lives in South Woodford, a small town about 15 miles outside of London. Now, don't faint. He says: "I'm keen to work with an American agency
because our youngest son is going to Oregon University to train as a teacher next year and
we intend to relocate so that we can be close to him. We've sold our house
and are renting a place right now, so we're ready to roll at short notice." DEB, are you and Fred ready to place the welcome mat out for a Brit Stable member and his family? Is the world really tiny... or is WriteHigh absolutely the size of a postage stamp...?

That, however, is not the end of my story. Last week, I asked Hali to find out how John was coming along on his final revisions. She came back and said: “I called John.”

Monique: “Oh, dear. But it’s a bit expensive, you know. And the hours might not be
right—let’s check.”

Hali, perplexed: “He seemed awake, and we only spoke for about a minute and a half.”

Monique: “Oh, really?” Most eager: “So, what did he say?”

Hali, perking up, realizing the call hadn’t cost too much: “Well, I asked him how the
revisions on his book were going, and he said: rather slowly, because he’d been
concentrating on his acting lately.”

Whereupon I collapsed in laughter, and haven’t recovered. Every time I become
involved in something that threatens to make me gloomy, I remember this, and start to
giggle again... hysterically. Hali becomes angry, though. She says I am embarrassing
her.

Think how confused the Other John Saxon must feel, and how very flattered. Not only
did he receive this odd telephone call from our literary agency about his book, but it was not from me, his friend— but from HALI!!!! Now, if his book is bad,
will we be forced to represent it/him? He must think: How the hell did they remember
I was even writing a book?

Welcome, Deb, Michael (we now have three Michaels in the Stable!), and John (and we have two Johns!)! We are proud to welcome all three of you!

...And now, an important rule of syntax:

WHY is it that almost all of you seem to believe that when mentioning a "special phrase," you must set it off in single quotes? In the United States, this needs to be set off, as I have just done, in double quotes. (In the UK, in reverse—in single quotes.) Here's the rule: ONLY EVER USE THE SINGLE QUOTE WHEN YOU ARE WITHIN A QUOTE:

"Jane, you ignorant slut, don't use a 'special phrase' when referring to sluts."

EVERY other use takes DOUBLE QUOTES. That's EVERY other use.

Also, please remember the difference between a TAG LINE and a GESTURE LINE:

The TAG LINE states what someone SAYS, declares, questions, demands, etc. You can substitute the verb "to say" for the verb that is used, and the quote should end in a comma, followed by the lower case, unless this is someone's name, of course:

"Jane, you ignorant slut, I love you," said Dan.

It could be:

"Jane, you ignorant slut, I love you," argued Dan. (Can you substitute "says" or "said" for "argued"? YES! The meaning prevails!)

But a GESTURE LINE is a complete sentence, which describes what someone DOES, not what someone says. You can never ably substitute the verb "to say" for the verb that is used:

"Jane, you ignorant slut, I love you." Dan began to pace the floor. (Can you substitute "says" or "said" for "began"? NO!) The GL describes what Dan does; it amplifies the context. GLs are highly useful.

I don't like dialogue that is devoid of GLs. I always mark it in the margins, and ask you to add GLs. WHY? Because I want color, I want decor, I want a scene into which the reader may insert himself. Dialogue without GLs is like an empty scene in a theatre. Imagine how much less exciting to sit at the Mark Taper Forum in LA (or in a Broadway theatre)and watch characters acting without decor. You'd have... that's right!... a reading. Nothing but a reading. A rehearsal. And your books are not rehearsals. They are the real thing. The decor should be another character—and not a supporting character, but one of the main ones.

My Papa's team just won, and so I'm a happy camper. Sorry for you guys from Massachusetts, but at least you can root for our new writers/authors.

Loving you madly, and Happy Valentine's Day (I've just been called an "Agentine"—see my double quote? by a client-in-the-making!)!

Monique
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A Story to Lift any Sagging Spirit: Celia's Gift to You!... and some Syntax Issues [Jan. 10th, 2008|07:02 pm]
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Dearest Friends and WriteHigh Stable Members,

One of the loveliest perks of being an author (as those of you who are, know so well-- right, Lisa?) is acquiring devoted readers who follow your books, begin to write to you, then develop a correspondence that blossoms into friendship. Authors often have fan clubs. Being, as our own poetic Greta Macias so gracefully worded it, "in the adolescence of my middle age," I began to publish before the advent of the Internet. Fan mail came in large manila envelopes from the publisher, and I voraciously devoured each one. I kept every letter, and had trailing correspondences with such divergent readers as:

...a Holocaust survivor from Poland who wrote to me until she died, when her granddaughter took up where she'd left off--by email; she became a contributor to the novel I wrote about the Holocaust, "The Keeper of the Walls";

...a mentally-impaired young man from New Jersey, who wrote to me for years until one day, he simply stopped writing; I worry about him, still;

...an older lady from Brooklyn named Marge, who wrote to me through illness, the marriages of her children, and her widowhood, until one her sons told me that she had died;

...a young woman in the military;

...a young Peruvian businessman, with whom I enjoy a thriving correspondence to this day; you have seen his photograph on our refrigerator, and posted on our website Gallery; his name is Antonio Mesquita; he is one of 10 siblings, and his hobby is decorating the most fantastic Christmas trees!

...and, finally, the subject of this post: a very young Indian girl, Celia Philips. Her father was (at the time) a diplomat stationed in Oman, and her mother was a teacher. She was, at the time, in high school. Celia is now 23 and has an engineering degree, and has begun to write. She is one of the most accomplished human beings alive. She is tender-hearted, hard-working, full of humor and gentleness, unassuming, unconscious of her own amazing talents... and I am very blessed, and very proud, to be her friend.

I have told Celia that I will help her with her writing. She has already started corresponding with our own Shelly Li! Two brilliant, shining lights. At year's end, Celia sent me this gift, which I would like, belatedly, to share with all of you. It is, I believe, as wonderful a way to begin the new year, and to usher in generosity of spirit and good intent. If James, Celia's character, could do it, then so can we.

Here is Celia's first story, for you, my writing friends and beloved clients:




JAMES' WHITE CHRISTMAS
by
Celia Philips


Christmas in India is different from White Christmas or Blue Christmas they have in Muscat. (Or so thought little James). A blend of traditions in India has made it a festival not only for Christians but for people from other communities. The noises that came from their neighbour’s courtyard reminded James that he had been standing behind the window, oblivious of the existence of any living thing in the vicinity. In fact he had gone to bed half an hour ago but he couldn’t sleep. It was unbelievable that they had left Muscat for good. How could they! Tears welled up in his big eyes as he bit his quivering lower lip.

Clarita was busy writing her diary. She bent down over the book as though she wouldn’t let a fly read her precious private lines. James turned to look at his sister. Clarita showed no signs of dolefulness. How could she stay so calm! James thought. How could she not feel the chagrin after being transplanted into a whole new world where they didn’t really belong? He sighed and crept back into his bed and pulled the sheets up to his nose. It was Monday. They had arrived there a week ago. A week was quite insufficient for a seven-year-old boy to adapt to a new environment. James shut his eyes hard, trying in vain to fence out every sad thought that floated into his mind. As his tears soaked his bed sheet the sounds from the neighbour’s courtyard shrank into silence.

The next day was the 20th of December. Clarita and James would celebrate Christmas in India for the first time. Dad had promised to take them to a movie that day. Clarita hopped and jumped with glee. She loved watching movies. A group of children encircled her. She was the eldest and was very popular with their little cousins who literally worshipped her. James soon came to a conclusion that the whole group was a bunch of duffers who were complaisant. They swallowed every word she spoke. He moved away from them. Fancy watching movies during Christmas time! It was nothing but a waste of time in his opinion. Reluctantly, he climbed up the back seat of his uncle’s car. They drove away slowly.

As the figures in the silver screen sprang to action, people laughed, screamed, applauded, and a few ladies wept. Everyone seemed to enjoy the movie; everybody except one person. James sighed for the umpteenth time. The sound in the cinema was deafening. He pushed his fingers into his ear in order to stop the din from entering them. Unlike little boys of his age, he hated violence and noises. He wished he were anywhere but this horrid dark tomb.

Finally the show that seemed everlasting came to an end. James sighed again, but this time it was with thankfulness. He squeezed through the crowd that was trying to exit through the tiny door which was held open by a beefy man in a guard’s uniform.

‘One by one, please’, the man said. But nobody listened. James felt sorry for the guard who was trying to tone down the fierceness of the departing crowd.

His momentary happiness, that had brought up his spirits when the movie had come to an end, had already evaporated away and was replaced by a pain when a big lady stamped his little foot and squashed it like an insect.

‘OUCH!’

He couldn’t help screaming. Tears blurred his vision for a few seconds. He turned to find Mum, when another woman pushed him aside to make her way to the exit. James' face was bubbling red when they at last reached the car.

On the way back he spoke nothing, determined to show everyone how angry he was. But nobody seemed bothered. They were discussing the movie. Clarita’s chatter infuriated him further. Can’t she keep her mouth shut for a moment? He was astonished to find that the grownups had joined the discussion as well. He had never felt so small and insignificant before. As the vague reflections of the trees sped before him James felt they had reached home.

But he soon found out that he was wrong. Uncle stopped the car in front of a tiny shop. They all got down and were ushered into it. The shop was not as small as it looked from outside. It was replete with all sorts of decorations, antiquated objects, clocks and dolls. There were a few terrifying wall hangings which consisted of heads of tigers, jackals and antelopes.

James heard his uncle introduce Dad and Mum to his friend who ran the shop. He looked at the man, who was smiling generously and nodding. The man caught his eye and nodded back kindly.

‘You can walk around and have a look at the things here,’ he said.

James was surprised to be addressed directly by a grownup as though he were an equal. Nevertheless, He suddenly felt very distinguished.

‘I like him,’ he decided. He smiled and walked slowly farther into the shop. After walking for sometime, he reached a juncture from where he had to turn either left or right. Clarita ran past him, followed by their cousins. They turned left and were gone. James stood staring after them for a while as though he expected their quick return. But they didn’t come back. He lost interest. He turned right and proceeded into a room. He wasn’t surprised to find a lot of clocks inside the room. He had seen countless clocks in Muscat and there was not one that he had not touched. He was reminded of his friend’s clock which the two of them had repaired. It was a nice, dancing pendulum clock. James didn’t fail to note that there was a Christmas tree at every corner of that room. He moved on. The tick-tocks of the clocks induced a deep sense of comfort in him. He wondered whether his ears were supersensitive to sounds because he could pick up every bit of the rhythm that sounded in the room.

Walking past the gigantic grandfather clocks, most of which were thrice or four times as tall as he was, James stopped dead in front of a wooden trunk. He stared and stared. Of course there was nothing enigmatic in an ugly old trunk. It was a little girl who drew his attention. She stood on the lid of the closed trunk. She held a piece of off-white cloth in her left hand and a glass of dirty water in the other. James became curious to know what she was up to. He watched her as she stood on her toes attempting to reach an ancient chandelier that hung directly above her. James realized that she was trying to clean the dusty chandelier. Her cute little face strained as she rose on her toes trying to balance. The empty trunk creaked. Though it looked strong, James had a feeling that the little girl might slip and fall, so he thought he should warn her. He waved at her. The little girl looked at him.

‘Be careful!’ he called out pointing at the trunk. ‘You might fall down. The trunk isn’t safe. Why don’t you use a chair instead?’

The moment he finished speaking he wished he hadn’t done so. Why did he have to say anything at all? The girl now stared down at him, a frown forming in her brow. That lasted for one whole minute before she turned and went back to her cleaning work.

The previously evaporated anger condensed and precipitated back into him. He felt insulted. She could have at least acknowledged his concern. He thought: People in India have no manners. Snorting loudly he left the room.

After a little shopping, they drove back home.

At night James sprawled in his bed and returned to his Muscat memories. He recollected his lovely schooldays. He thought about his pals who had wept uncontrollably when he'd bidden them farewell. He dug out every single detail of the world where he truly belonged. He craved to be near John, Akash and Harsh. He laughed softly when he remembered how John had planted a foot on big Ben’s back when the latter had called him names when he'd failed the class test. Tears flowed down his cheeks when he thought of Anne and her little sister who had brought him apple pies when he was in the hospital with a broken arm. He missed Anne, Joel and Sunitha. Their voices droned in his ears for quite some time. Would he ever see them again?

Did it usually drizzle in India during Christmas season? He didn't know. It didn’t in Oman. Winters were very cold there but it never rained. Yet why is it raining here? It’s so illogical. ‘Must ask Mummy, ’ thought James. He opened his eyes and shuddered to find Clarita’s bespectacled nose above him.

‘Wake up!’ she shouted. ‘It’s almost 10 o' clock.’

She had a mug of water in her hand. It soon became obvious that it was his sister who was sprinkling water on his face and that there was no rain. It was a perfect sunny morning. Irritated, James screamed and chased Clarita out of the room. He had been in the middle of a wonderful dream when Clarita interrupted. He forgot it. He tried hard to recollect it. He felt so sorry that he thought of going back to sleep so that he may dream the same one again. But then he decided against it.

He looked out of the window to find Dad, Mum and Uncle busy fixing the crib in front of the house. Clarita had joined them. James went downstairs where his aunt served him breakfast. He ate alone. He had been the last person to wake up and ended up the last person to eat. Later he picked his glass of milk and sat down on the verandah of the house. He decided not to share the joy of Christmas with anyone. So he watched his cousins play with the kids next door. He watched Clarita mingle with them easily. The place was filled with laughter. Everybody seemed excited.

‘Beep, beep!’

James turned his head in the direction of the horn. He wondered who would call in on a day like this. He soon found out the source of the sound. A car stopped outside the gate. Uncle ran towards it and opened the gate wide, allowing the car to enter. When it stopped, Uncle welcomed a man out of the car. The man was short, stout and bald. He was very buoyant in spirits.

‘Wait a minute!’ thought James, ‘I know this man.’

The man spoke animatedly to Uncle and the others. James stared at his round, bald head. Then suddenly, the way he had done inside the shop, the old man spoke directly to James.

‘This is Mina, my granddaughter.’

Beside him stood the pretty little girl James had met the previous day. She smiled at him but he could see none of her teeth. James wondered whether she had teeth at all! A heavy pat on his back brought him back to reality. James blinked and blushed.

‘Say hello to Mina, ’ said Dad.

Mina was all smiles. James took her outstretched arm, shook it once and dropped it. He did not return her smile. He was reminded of the ignominy to which he had been subjected by this girl. Didn’t she remember it? he wondered. Well, he was going to pay her back today. And he walked into to the house.

Throughout the day James played with his cousins. Their games bored him yet he had to join them now. It was a part of his plan to pay that awful girl back, who sat beside her grandfather. James roared and yelled to prove his presence. Through the corners of his eyes, he spied Mina staring at them. She looked as though she wished to join them. But nobody seemed to notice her, not even generous Clarita. James’ heart melted a little. He had experienced alienation before and he could reckon how Mina must be feeling. But he couldn’t injure his pride so he avoided looking at her.

Mina and her grandfather left in the evening. James heard Uncle inviting them for Christmas. So another meeting with her was inevitable.

It was when the dinner was served that certain revelations were encountered. The children were in front of the T.V. Watching a movie while eating was one thing that they couldn’t live without. However, James did not approve of this. But he had to join them. He stuffed his mouth with food while he strained to listen to what the grownups were discussing. What he heard terrified his tender heart. It was about Mina. She was as deaf as a doll! She was completely oblivious to the minutest sounds that could be perceived by humankind.

‘She is the only daughter of a venerable businessman,’ James heard his aunt say. ‘A little carelessness consumed him for good. He died of electric shock while fixing an electric device.’

‘They took his wife to a hospital. She lost her sanity. Never recovered,’ added Uncle.

James wept in his bed. He bit his pillow and dug his nails in his bed sheet. He tried to smother the snobs that escaped him. He had never known tragedy before. The one that he heard now was too heavy a burden to bear. He couldn’t imagine Mina’s pain or the kind of life that she led. What would it feel like to live with the knowledge that she would never see her parents again? James was scared when he heard that Mina’s mother had spent a few years in the dark corners of the asylum until she died.

‘I certainly don’t understand these grownups,’ thought James. ‘How could they talk of such horrible things as though they were discussing a football match?’
The lull in the room was frightening. He hardly knew when he fell asleep.

The Christmas Eve arrived. People who were invited for the Christmas party started showing up. There was a big white cake on the table. The yellow and green icing on it gave it the look of an enchanted forest! James opened his eyes wide, taking the beauty in. He was pleased to find Mummy in a blue sari and Aunty in pink. Clarita looked pretty in her new dress and so did the cousins. He watched the families who had arrived early. He counted the number of tiny tots who stared longingly at the cake. Outside it was getting dark. But the house was all lit up and the decorations shone brightly. The angel on the top of the Christmas tree smiled down upon them as though blessing every person in the house. James searched among the guests for someone he truly wished to meet.

Just then a car drove into the compound. James picked up the sound and raced toward the front door. He watched an old man open the door of his car and walk out. A little girl followed.

Mina looked beautiful in her red silk skirt and blouse. Her hair was neatly tied up into two plaits. James face lit up, though he hesitated to welcome them inside. The old man and his granddaughter proceeded into the house as James watched.

The party had begun. There was music and the other children danced around the hall with glee. Mina sat on her grandfather’s lap. Her grandfather was soon engrossed in conversation with the other men in the room. She stared at everybody, smiling occasionally. James was sad. She couldn’t hear the wonderful music and she had no idea how to dance. He stared at her for a few minutes.

Picking up courage, James walked towards her. He pulled her out of the old man’s lap and said, ‘I will teach you how to dance.’ Then he turned around to look at his father, who grinned back.

He took Mina to the children near the Christmas tree and danced to the music. Mina laughed and followed his movements. She seemed to pick up every step gracefully. Mummy and Aunty clapped their hands in sheer joy. The others joined them. Mina looked like a scarlet rose in full bloom. The two children became the idols of the limelight. The dance ended with a thunder of applause. Mina ran up and down with elation. Everybody laughed. Then she ran back to her grandfather who picked her up and kissed her plump cheeks.

James wondered whether she had heard a thing. He knew she had not and fancied that she did. The cake was cut and was soon finished. The gifts were given away. The clock struck one when everybody left for their homes, wishing Merry Christmas. Mina and her grandfather drove away in their car.

The house fell silent. James lay with his hands beneath his head. He thought of all that had happened today. The silence that prevailed in the room was not scary tonight. For James it was serendipity when he realized that happiness was the only thing that grows continually when given out. By giving happiness to others, he could bring happiness to himself. And this happiness, he was certain, would never fade.

He sat straight in his bed and switched on his table lamp. He pulled out a book from underneath his pillow. It was his abandoned diary. He opened it. James turned to find his sister fast asleep in her bed. Noiselessly he pulled out the pen that Clarita had placed between the pages of her diary. He mused for a moment and then wrote:

‘My White Christmas...’


Those of you who would like to personally communicate with Celia can do so by emailing her at celiahere@gmail.com. I'll have new photographs of her and her charming, supportive family (including her younger brother, Cecil, who loves video games-- don't all teenagers?) up there very soon. She's beautiful; but, as with everything else about her, she simply doesn't seem to realize this. Our Ben says that this is what truly beautiful women have that is most appealing: they are essential beauties, radiating from the core outward. (By the way, a truly good CHARACTER does this, too. Nodbody likes to read about brand-name sillies anymore. Even those of us who shop brand names are bored-- and embarrassed-- when our vanities are reflected back at us. As our deeply beloved Peter says, it's so much more fun to shop for Jimmies [HAH! I uttered a brand name! I mean, of course, the unparalled Choos, of which the girls on "Sex and the City" owned more pairs than my cat owns choo toys] when you pay Payless prices for them and can boast of this to your friends.) When your characters can echo a more profound worth, such as James' in Celia's story... readers feel good about themselves for having wept. WE feel we've grown, not just James-- don't we?

Thank you, Celia-- on every level.

And now, back to the usual basics of my lecturing you about writing.

Sharon Goldstein asked that I tell you when to use "en-dashes" versus "em-dashes." She's been working on the final version of her magnum opus, "The Spice Road," and the answer to this is highly relevant to all of you. Mike D'Angelo and John Saxon were recently driven round the bend with my tags on their respective manuscripts. After that, I'm amazed they signed with our agency! The answer is simple: a well-groomed manuscript should only ever show a long dash, called an "em-dash" in editorial parlance.

...Never, ever use a single hyphen when you mean to use a dash;

...The "en-dash" is a shorter dash, separated from the two words or punctuation marks that precede and follow it. It should not be used. It is all right, and not a horrid no-no, but editors prefer the em-dash. I always delete the en-dash and mark: "use em-dash" for that reason in your margins.

...How to format an em-dash in Microsoft WORD: quite simply, in fact. Don't put any space after the previous word or punctuation mark, do a double hyphen, then again no space whatsoever, and your next word or punctuation mark. The em-dash will format itself out of the double hyphen!

...If your manuscript is already written, and it is full of en-dashes instead of em-dashes, or of, god forbid, double hyphens (definite no-nos), you can fix this (these) with the Search and Replace key on the Editing Menu. You will press "Find," then "Replace," then put in the offending en-dash or double hyphen on your "Find" line, and on the "Replace" line, you will need first to press a key to your left marked "More." It will bring down a drop menu, which will feature the word "Special." Look for "em-dash," and click on that. It will come up as a symbol on the "Replace" line. Then click "Replace All." Your manuscript will suddenly look perfect.

On a simpler note, many of you are making a mistake I fail to understand: I have seen it so often that I need to make note of it here. You are creating apostrophes instead of making simple plurals. For example: "Many apostle's are coming to the Last Supper." Why? Apostrophes are STRICTLY to indicate possessives or omissions. Along the same line, don't apostrophize dates in the wrong place: "The '60s," not "the 60's." What's being left out here is "19-."

Sharon Horton informs me of the-- oh, horrors!-- directive from Harlequin not to use semicolons, but to use commas instead and at all times. This poor darling author, who has published a number of award-winning novels, was horrified (though more than willing to comply) when she received my edits. She was merely being a good author. I told her that she should disregard Harlequin and follow my edicts. We learned in the Ivy League, from Delacorte, Tarcher, and at Esquire. We passed tests there. Sorry, but when we get Sharon and you "autres ecrivains" into other homes, and the editors there ream you for bad grammar, we, along with you, will get blamed. Semicolons are good, and cool, and even fun. My first boyfriend used to send me nine-page love letters filled with them. Granted, they were in French, but that's okay. They rock!

I exhort all of you in the US to keep a Chicago Style Manual (the Fifteenth Edition is still the most recent) at your side, and if you're a Brit, the Oxford Style Manual. I highly recommend, for our Statesiders, a slim little volume that is so easy to manipulate that even a high-school student can do it (if his nose isn't in a video game, like young Cecil): The Little, Brown Essential Handbook for Writers, by Jane E. Aaron. It's much handier than the Chicago, though not as comprehensive.

Here is another set of pointers, and all of you, Brits and Yanks alike, need to pay attention: I am simply appalled at the shape your manuscripts look like when they reach me. I need to stop wasting my time writing in the margins: "Please be uniform!" What I mean here is very simple. Many times, two spellings of the same word are acceptable, such as "gray" and "grey." Or, you may hyphenate or write a word in a single word, or in two words. BUT FOR THE LOVE OF BUDDHA, CHRIST, MOHAMMAD, AND THE TOOTH FAIRY, DO IT THE SAME WAY THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT!!!! Editors do not want to see a word spelled three different ways in the same manuscript. ...'kay?

Also:

...Accepted British spellings: "-our": honour, saviour, etc.
...Accepted U.S. spellings: "-or": honor, savior, etc.

...Accepted British spellings: "-wards": forwards, towards, backwards, etc.
...Accepted US spellings: "-ward": forward, toward, backward, etc.

If you are a British writer, you may keep your British wording: "whilst," "lift," "jumper," "bonnet," etc. And the inverted comma as your way of handling dialogue. The editor will "properly translate you." For you Yanks, a lift is an elevator, a jumper is a kind of sweater, and a bonnet is the hood of a car.

I think I'm done. Sebastian, my Persian beauty (he's a marvelous cat, really-- he doesn't have that pushed-in face at all, but a perfectly chiseled countenance worthy of Leonardo) tells me I need to start paying him some mind. As for Miss Petunia, her little nose is permanently out of joint, but that's 'cuz she's La Princesa.

I need to add some business news, however. Peter has been wandering the street of New York, carrying manuscripts (in a Vuitton bag, no less). Hali (who is learning the ropes even as we "speak"!) and I have been making appointments for him, and he has been charming editors all over the Big, crunchy Apple. He's been having a ball. "I just don't get it," he said yesterday. "When agents say they're soooo tired, and they work soooo hard, it's just b.s. It's FUN!" That's because he does such a good job and understands that books, and you, and making YOU happen, is heady stuff. He also loves talking to you about your work. Don't go through your plot inch by inch, though. Tell him what makes you passionate about this project. That will make HIM passionate. Details, no, concepts, yes. Remember that. And none of us, including Hali, wishes to receive too many emails at this time-- only what we need. This is one of our heaviest sales seasons, and we are hard at work on YOUR behalf!

One final note: I am developing Hali's agent skills. She has her first project. So, one, two, three... YAY, Hali! We are so very proud of her!

With much affection,

Monique
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HAPPY NEW YEAR... AT LAST! [Dec. 21st, 2007|07:51 pm]
Dearest Clients and Agency Friends,

...What a year this has been! As our boutique agency unfolded its gossamer wings, it acquired some wonderful new clients, adding to our Stable of beloved writers. A professor at the University of Portland (OR), John Schouten, a published poet, whose elegance of style first made me notice him, stands out. His first novel is a literary thriller entitled "Notes From the Lightning God." Janis Thomas, who used to be in a band with her sister, writes noir thrillers about a woman detective who sings as she solves her crimes; in her "spare time," Janis is a baker-- a professional baker! We have acquired life coaches Nicolas and Grace Roquefort-Villeneuve; he's French, she's Filipino-American, they're gorgeous. Joel, Linda, and our WriteHigh team want to turn them into Dr. Phil meets Dr. Laura-- only, yes, with charm and (giggle) grace. From Reno comes Michael Cid D'Angelo, creator of the Artemus Dark fantasy series; Mike has a razor-sharp wit, and his character is a magician who is just too cool for words. In Artemus's world, magic is taught at Duke, and forensics includes sorcery. Then, of course, there is the lovely Lisa Jones Johnson, author of "A Dead Man Speaks," which was nominated for a number of awards. The women in Lisa's family have, for generations, all been mediums; she transferred this arcane power to the detective in her book. Her grandmother could predict the outcomes of tests when she was a student at Radcliffe (Harvard), winning her many friends.

Gilles Gallimard, of the famous Gallimard publishing dynasty, became our client just about a year ago. An investment banker, Gilles had wanted to be a writer since his earliest childhood, but had resisted the familial pull into "the Biz" until he'd made his own money and was in his mid-forties. At that point, he decided to indulge his love of the noir thriller, and founded a publishing house solely dedicated to new authors of French suspense: Editions GiGa (think of the first two letters of his first and last names). He became the first GiGa author, under the name of Ulysse Brandon. We have virtual world rights on the Brandon series.

Young, handsome, idealistic Brian Dunne has backpacked through two-thirds of the world. His travel memoir so impressed Susan that she passed it to Ben, our lawyer, who scoffed, having other matters to which to attend. But she knew he'd love it, and he did. Only after he'd read it was I given the clear, impressive proposal, which put me right there, on the edge of the earth-- in Burma, talking with George about the abysmal situation we here don't even know about, but which haunted Brian so much that he is going to donate half the proceeds of this book to those who are being persecuted there. We said "Yes yes!" to Brian's query. There was an exoticism mixed with honesty, an integrity to the work, which moved me. It will move readers and travelers alike.

And, as no stable is complete without a colt on which to place one's highest hopes and expectations, we have added a veritable prodigy to our roster: Shelly Li, who just turned fifteen on my own daughter's birthday (how propitious is that?)!

Shelly's book is a science fiction story that we are currently fleshing out. When Shelly first wrote to me, I thought she was, for certain, at least in her mid-twenties. The story was intricate and amazingly complex. The writing was pure and electric. It simply needed more fluff, more texture. I also could see that it would, later, do well as a Japanese anime. Anyone who knows me will also know that I am addicted to animes the way I am to chocolate and Manolos. Feed me a good one and I'll wash your floorboards. So Shelly's story held special appeal. How astonished was I to learn that the person seeking me out was, in fact, a fourteen-year-old girl living in Omaha! She is sophisticated, amusing, self-assured, and eager to learn. And, naturally, she has a website.

Anchored by Shelly on one end and Grande Dame Greta Macias (the former diva) on the other, we simply couldn't go wrong.

At least, this is what I believed. Famous final gasps from the mouths of literary agents about to be hexed by Artemus's worst enemy...?

For this year has not been all Dom Perignon and Beluga caviar. I learned the hard way that mentoring young women is not always as delightful and fruitful as mentoring Shelly. Our effort at establishing ourselves as a bi-coastal agency initially floundered because our first New York agent did not fulfill my expectations, or her own promise. She was a talented young woman, and I was deeply disappointed when we had to let her go. She left WriteHigh New York in a virtual shambles, and I felt, frankly, betrayed.

Meanwhile, to make matters more difficult, my right-hand "wind beneath my wings," Susan Chin, needed to take some time off. This could not have occurred at a worse moment. I was left virtually by myself to run the entire operation. Of course, Joel and Linda Coler continued to be amazing, and to handle our clients' PR with their usual panache. But all the admin, the clients, the prospective clients, the classes... all that was just me.

At that moment, Ben stepped in and offered to tackle the preliminary readings of some of the new submissions. As a former editor at Esquire and instructor at USC's graduate program in Professional Writing, he was uniquely qualified. I sobbed a grateful "YES!" and handed him part of the pile.

I probably have forgotten to state that WriteHigh, your agency, receives about thirty-to-forty queries per week, all of which praise us for our writer-friendly website; thank you, Jess, for keeping up with us, honey! Well, that is because we've been there. We've been first-time writers, and we know what it feels like to be looking for representation. So, we answer every query. But we cull these queries carefully. From the query pile, we choose maybe three to whom we say, "Send us fifty pages." It's to those pages that I am referring. Ben and I (Susan still helps with this) need to go through the selections to see whether we wish to ask for the full manuscript. Only about one out of ten receives a "yes." Mike D'Angelo was one who later received a "yes" from the pile after that one, which is smaller yet.

This was not the way to tend to about thirty already-signed clients in varying stages of transition, with only Ben to help with the pile of incoming.

I tried to hire office help. I truly did. The first person seemed wonderful. She was a mom, very steady; the only problem was that she had one child with mental problems, and one day, she just felt that life was too much because of him, and so she didn't call, didn't come, just, well, disappeared. With the office petty cash. The next person was lovely. We got along famously, and the clients-- those of you who met her-- really appreciated her. But she had a lazy-bum boyfriend who depressed her, and so she eventually left, supposedly because she needed a corporate job to fund psychological help to give her the strength to leave the b.f. The next one said she was a step-mom whose step-kids lived with their mom, but she quit, saying, tearfully, that she needed to stay home "because of the step-kids." And the fourth, bless her heart, joined a missionary camp.

Do I still have a strand of hair left on my scalp, or have I pulled every last one out?

Then there were the office computers. All of them crashed spectacularly during the year. We have named them "Barbara" (the bigger and smarter one-- she went to Yale, after all) and "Jenna" (the smaller and slower one, she went to Texas Party School) for the Bush Twins. Did I just say "crashed"? One of them also burned. With smoke coming out of it.

The computers are fixed. Sort of. But your files are safe, redeemed, available, etc.

No sooner did we think we had one problem solved, than the Bloggers came. Oh yes, the bloggers. There are a few who believe that I am evil because I answer queries immediately. This makes me "not a real agent." There are some who light into Frank in Indiana. They hate the very idea of Frank. After all, who could derive benefit from YOUR TARGET READER? (Your target reader is a grocer, a personal assistant, a lawyer, a manicurist, a psychiatrist-- in other words, your sister, or my father. But to this blogger, that isn't Stu Dybek, winner of the MacArthur. SHE derided our Franks, and discounted me, "not a real agent." So Michael Gray, the best of clients, wrote an impassioned "leave-my-agent-alone" letter, and said: "My proposal package happens to include a recommendation from Stu Dybek!" But this did not stop this woman from going at WriteHigh. I have never sold a book, she claimed. At this point, she committed libel, and Ben considered suing her. She is an unpublished, unagented writer, but we’ve never rejected her. Why does she hate us, I wonder? …Last, but not least, she lambasted me for having a client named “Giuseppe Notarbartolo di Sciara.” Surely this, above all, was evidence of my perfidy and bad faith.

At this point, I did not know whether to burst out laughing, take a plane to Italy to drown my sorrows in good Italian wine with Giuseppe and his family (which includes whales and sea creatures he curates), or simply shoot myself. I plead guilty. Perfidious I surely am. He does exist, so named. His is no nom de plume. And he couldn’t be more of a regular fellow than Ian McEwan.

There was a second anti-WriteHigh blogger, this one less vicious, but spewing filth along the same lines. Trying very hard to find us at fault over anything, and angry because she couldn't. We “offer too much,” we’re not narrow enough, we’re too much “like music managers.” (HUH?) I just know that we love our writers, and I built this agency on purpose to encompass as much as I could to offer you a compendium of choices. And the more we offer you, the better we feel!

Having to read all this whining commentary about myself and the agency was discouraging. But then the Angels arrived, wearing their little haloes.

Angel Number 1 is Peter. Peter Jaeger is our NEW New York agent, and he is purrfect. He is dynamic, wise, worldly, amusing, mature... and he knows exactly how to deal with our editorial counterparts. He has reliability, he has depth, and he has started to market your books. He understands that putting the editor at ease, selling him on WriteHigh and our expertise, then on each project and on each author, is essential. His job is to promote, to enhance, to set off who you are, what you've done, how you can make them look good. He loves what he does, and he is as good as his word.

Angel Number 2 is Hali. Hali Castro Tobin. You give her an idea, and she's already started to run off with it. Ben calls her "Halogen, because she is so bright." She's effective, smart, quick, cool, and she is eager to learn whatever she doesn't know. I feel I have a friend and cohort in the office, and she's already received her first submission!

With Peter running to editors, Hali and me pitching, Ben writing contracts, the PR team concocting new ways of promoting you, I would say that the year has ended on a very high note, indeed. We are all sleepless, for sure, but that's all right. All of us are sleepless together, and we’re working on your projects.

Next on the list: revamping our foreign department. Lest ye think I've been asleep at the wheel... well, I haven't. You'll soon be hearing news about that, too. Very good news!

Meanwhile, triumphs for the Stable have been manifold. You can read all about these in the pages we are devoting to you under "MEDIA & PUBLICATIONS" and "LATEST NEWS & TRIUMPHS." Jess does her best to keep up with the entries I write, which is my way of honoring you and your accomplishments.

To sum up a few of these at year-end:

--Jim Potts's legal memoir, "The Right to Counsel," will be published next spring by Sourcebooks/Sphinx. Jim and I both enjoy a wonderful relationship with his editor, Erin Shanahan.

--Lisa Jones Johnson has made numerous appearances to promote her novel, "A Dead Man Speaks." She has received portfolios of fan mail to support the book.

--Kathleen Piché participated in an anthology, "Little Sisters, Vol. 1," edited by Loretta Scott Miller, in which her story, "Freeway Culture," appears in first place! It has just been published, under the aegis of Sisters in Crime, the organization formed for women mystery writers by Sara Paretsky and some of her cohorts.

--Dr. Jeff Schweitzer appeared on numerous television and radio programs, notably Playboy Radio, which netted him many fan letters asking for his book. I trust that this will help Peter and me to sell it quickly!

--Gina Cloud also appeared on Playboy Radio regarding women and how they-- we-- are perceived and should be perceived. Then Dr. Jan Perry, the Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, lost a famous patient, the mother of rapper Kanje West. Gina had won a lawsuit against Dr. Perry for "botching" some surgery of the non-plastic kind. Gina, always gracious, had not sought the publicity, but the media found her when Dr. Perry's case gained national attention. Since she was being asked to appear on shows, Gina decided to speak out about the issues that concerned her-- the issues she discusses on her talk-radio show, W.O.M.A.N., and which will be the topic of her book series.

--Dr. Kimberly Greene gave birth to Graydon Lane Greene on June 23. He is simply splendid. Meanwhile, she finished the second of her "Pop Star" Young Adult series, "I Am So Not A Pop Star!," which will come out next year in the UK (Usborne House). (Hush now, but Peter is placing "My Sister is a Pop Star" [No.1] in editorial hands right here in the US even as we speak!)

--Jennifer Oliver married Lynn O'Connell on August 4. The ceremony was beautiful, and our Susan was in the wedding!

--LorrieGay Marlow and film star Robert Hooks set a wedding date: June 15, 2008.

A beloved former client passed away: Robert Hertz. He was a gallant, elegant man, gentle and good, who bicycled from his home to our meetings even though he was over seventy years old. We worked very hard to prepare his novel, "The Dystopian Man," for publication. I wanted him to go over it one more time. He resisted me. I stood my ground. Although there was a great deal of love between us, he didn't agree to the amount of work I was suggesting, and decided to self-publish the work. It was his absolute right to do so. We remained good friends. A few months ago, he developed mesothelioma. He died just recently. I still agonize over my decision; perhaps I was wrong, and the novel could have been sold without that additional refinishing. But maybe he knew that he did not have that much time. As it was, he saw the self-published version, and mentioned me in the Acknowledgment page, which moved me deeply.

To balance out this sadness is the good news that my Barnard intern of seven years ago, Kineret Fischer, whom some of you so vividly remember, has, like LorrieGay, set a wedding date. She went to New Zealand to spend time with a former professor of hers from the Biosphere, Andrew Peterson. Their love has blossomed and unfolded. They will be married in Australia next December. Kineret is writing a book about an incident that took place at Columbia University when she was there-- a political incident. Of course, you know which agency will be handling her project!

Loving you madly...
Monique (& her Team of Elves)
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The New York Trip! March 2007 [Apr. 1st, 2007|03:14 pm]
Dear hearts,

My trip to the Big Apple to launch WriteHigh's Literary Agency did not go off without its share of requisite "Monique-style adventures." First off, there was my hotel, which shall remain unnamed. I stay there frequently; its proximity to the center of Manhattan is useful, as is the fact that it has a gym and a restaurant. This time, however, they gave me a room facing a warren of other rooms (when I had asked for a view of the avenue-- Seventh, which is always full of delightful movement and a lot of light). I asked to be as far away from the ice machine (who wants to be awakened eight times a night, as I was some years ago? You can guess where I was led by a bewildered bellman, who had to turn around when I resolutely told him that I wouldn't go inside. The room has a faulty heater. And the meal I'd ordered to await me wasn't there. It was midnight. You can guess just how cold and hungry I was, and the next day, I had meetings starting very, very early.

I was given a new room, enormous, beautiful, with a corner view of Seventh Avenue and 57th Street. The heater situation, however, didn't improve. Electricians and engineers kept appearing. I kept being offered free room-service breakfasts. At one point, growing tired of freezing (it was snowing, for goodness' sake!), I suggested a space heater. I'll break a BIG editorial rule here and use the passive voice: I was looked at as though I had suggested asking for the moon, but they happened to have a spare moon available that day. Phew... I began to enjoy myself. One evening, feeling truly decadent, I even ordered a pot of hot chocolate and an English muffin for dinner. And had it in bed!

The other habit this hotel has developed is not making up the rooms-- well, MY room!-- until nighttime. One evening, having encountered breakfast remains and bath towels in the bedroom, as well an unmade bed, at 8:45 P.M., I stormed downstairs, armed with a dirty cup and towel. I found the manager, whom I've known by name for several years. Lo and behold, an entire convention of seventy-five people were queued up to register. I leaned over, and, smiling, whispered to him: "My dear Nameless, shall I merely ask you to send up Housekeeping RIGHT NOW to make up my room, or shall I go into my best Cruella De Vil impression and swing this dirty towel above my head? These good people might be edified."

As for new York, one of my favorite cities in the world, I had very little chance to see it. This trip was all work. But New York was mostly an angry city this time; it contrived to catch me in windstorms, pelt rain at me when I couldn't find a taxi and wasn't wearing my coat (also thanks to the reassurance of the hotel concierge, who had told me that it most assuredly would remain sunny all day), and snow. I hadn't brought boots with tread, and almost broke every bone in my body. The worst part is trying to catch a taxi at 5 P.M. when it's shift change. One shift is going home, and the next hasn't appeared yet. I found myself wheeling a manuscript box the size of your house for twelve blocks in the freezing snow. Taxi drivers did take pity on me and stop-- but only to offer explanations as to why they couldn't take me.

Okay, okay, what a lot of complaints, kvetching, and whining! Didn't anything good happen? Well, I was told by my mommy (my French maman) to save my dessert and not gobble it first. Wait a moment, Stable members. There was lots of good stuff. However, I do need to announce something sad, which will come as a great disappointment to many of you: we have had to let Stephanie Cornfield go. Although she was excellent at finding connections at Book Fairs for us, she was never in Paris long enough to follow through. Susan and I need a foreign representative who is passionate about you guys-- who will truly spend the requisite time closing the deal, as well as hooking the editor. For this, we need an agent abroad who has the patience to remain in place. But, don't worry, the search has already begun, and we'll have one for you very soon.

... Representing WriteHigh leads me to WriteHigh New York, and back to my March trip, the purpose of this blog entry. VANESSA MABOURAKH is the opposite of Stephanie. She is passionate about what it takes to make a good agent, and has jumped into the teamwork that I require of my entire staff. It's never about the "I," but about the "you," who are "you guys, the Stable." While I was in New York, SUSAN CHIN was at the office until 11 P.M. every night, researching editors so that Vanessa and I could enter each meeting excellently prepared. That is a team member who thinks of YOU. Vanessa is like that, too-- already. Her ideas about which clients can fit which editor's list sometimes astound me. She's learned how to make a splendid presentation; her people skills are truly finely honed.

We spent one evening together at The Redeye Grill with Jim Potts, who happened to be in New York on business. It was a lot of fun, although the food left a lot to be desired (dry fish, for me). When we were done, Vanessa said to me: "He is the most intelligent man I've ever met." As a result, she got to pitch Jim's work.

You are, of course, dying to know how we were received as a new agency. To tell the truth, Susan achieved miracles. She opened doors that other agencies take years to reach. She may have begged, pleaded and cajoled, but she got Vanessa and me in to see extremely well-placed editors at various important houses ideal for the type of work we represent. Here are some examples of editors we visited:

How could we go wrong by visiting the adorable, poised, always generous SALLY KIM of Shaye Areheart/Crown (Random House), who is making of our Jill Smolinski an international star in women's fiction? She made Vanessa feel at home right away. I've know Sally since her earlier days at St. Martin's Thomas Dunne Books, where she made her mark as a seeker and promoter of very fine novels. Now, she has "fallen into" dark, powerfully gripping psychological thrillers, and she passed one onto us: "Sharp Objects." Read it, and you'll see what pleases her and her public. More and more, women are writing exciting novels on the dark side. Sally's point is, if the writing is mesmerizing, she wants to see it. (Renee, you're going to Sally!) But she's still looking for Jill's type of lighter women's fiction.

WILLIAM FRUCHT, Basic Books (The Perseus Group): Bill edits such luminaries as William Buckley and Zbigniew Brzezinski. He's about my age, is married to a Barnard graduate (yay! I had a "way in" to say hello), wears suspenders-- indeed, he looks like our idea of a "real editor"! Could Vanessa and I find a more erudite editor? Never. This man's office is full of the most wonderful books, which, of course, he has edited. I wanted to bring them all home. He gave us some, naturally, and told Vanessa that she had joined a profession where she can expect "lunch, and books" from editors. Vanessa, one of the most beautiful women I've ever known, with a stupendous Size 2 figure, eats ALL DAY LONG. She was thrilled with both these perks. (Yes, if you want Vanessa to help you with your book, SEND HER COOKIES!!!!) He also said to her: "I'm expecting some younger authors from you. Some of my best ones are in their eighties." What a lovely man. We spent a full hour in his office.

MICHAELA HAMILTON, Editor-in-Chief of Citadel Books, Executive Editor of Kensington (nonfiction): We spent an hour with her, too. And she's not a woman who wastes her time. She and her colleague, John Scognamiglio, have totally turned Kensington around. She's astute, piercing in her questions, and extremely kind. I know our writers can grow with her. She knows what she wants, and can make it happen. Citadel develops mysteries (she handles fiction in this domain!), as well as authentic hero stories and serial killer stories.

At Kensington, where they opened their door to us, we saw KATE DUFFY, the Editorial Director of Romance, who is interested in all manner of romantic fiction... as well as fast-paced thrillers. Kate reminded me of our own Kate McMains. She has that same wry wit. She and I discussed a fact that was hotly debated among editors while I was in New York: Is chick-lit dead? Michaela calls it "light women's fiction." Kate laughs and says: "Well, I was never a 'chick,' and I never read that sort of book." (I can just hear our Kate saying this!)

ELIZABETH BEIER (Executive Editor, St. Martin's Press), the most delightfully eclectic editor I have ever met, says that as far as she is concerned, saying chick-lit is dead is simply hypocritical. Of course it exists! And she loves it and publishes it.

We had fun in Elizabeth's office. She told us we could pick any book off her shelves!I found a memoir by Helen Gurley Brown, and, lo and behold!, inside was a photograph which included my father, when he worked at Twentieth Century Fox with Helen's husband, David Brown! Elizabeth reminded us of Virginia Hoyt: she's energetic and very pretty, in that same healthy, natural way. We liked both her and her varied interests, which were in both fiction and nonfiction.

Women's fiction, we noted, has changed. It has changed both gently and radically. Chick-lit is now maturing into "mommy lit" or "hen lit," as Bridget Jones and her ilk mature. The British authors (who call it "yummy-mummy lit")are no longer so popular. Boomer or "hormone" lit is very big. (Greta has seized upon this and done an excellent job with her creation of Callie, I must say, and this made Vanessa's and my job quite easy as we tried to sell her.) Editors want erotic women's fiction, and they also want genre erotic fiction: romance erotic fiction, fantasy erotic fiction, sci fi erotic fiction; vampire women's lit is very big. And in the gentle area, books about towns where nothing all that tremendous happens, but the characters change, are big; Jan Karon helped this happen. My friend, Executive Editor ELLEN EDWARDS of NAL/The Penguin Group (USA), published a book where the most momentous occurrence was a woman's building a pool in her back yard. It wasn't working out as she'd planned, and she was trying to hide her failure from her husband. Of course, her benevolent friends were trying to help her out. A sweet town story, reminiscent of Jan Karon's novels.

And young stories written for adults also sell. Stories of wounded, prescient teens, surviving and thriving. (Stories like Caroline's-- take note, Care.)

One of our favorite editors was AARON SCHLECHTER of The Overlook Press. Aaron, whose background is in landscape architecture, is also interested in a variety of subjects, and is even willing to give a writer a chance if he/she has good enough potential to be "developed" into a really good author. In other words, you don't hafta be perfect. Overlook has a sister house, Duckworth, in the UK, so if you're lucky enough to be picked up by them, you immediately know you're also going to be published over there, too. Vanessa and I were so deeply engrossed in our talk with Aaron that we missed our next appointment, becoming candidates for Susan's wrath. Aaron is young, open, very interested in our writers... and who wouldn't forget time while talking to him?

RICHARD EMBER (Senior Editor at Citadel), educated at Sarah Lawrence, absolutely delighted us. His zany sense of humor-- such as publishing a book on tanks and artillery not used in World War II, including the most absurd photographs-- can mislead you. He also has a highly developed serious side. He likes memoirs, and stories of harrowing experiences that will move the reader. We had some to pitch! Richard combs websites for new,highly observational writing. As does his younger colleague, ADAM KORN.

ADAM and Vanessa hit it off. They're both young, and "get" the pulse of today's youth. He's looking for what's edgy and aimed at pop culture. He likes memoirists, but only if they're "on the cusp." Dave Eggers naturally comes to mind. To fit Adam's requirements, you must be just ahead of the curve, and if you're lean and mean, and a bit dangerous, he'll publish you all the faster. Adam is a male lit sorta guy, just as some of the women editors we visited aim toward the female market almost exclusively... such as:

MICKI NUDING, Senior Editor at Pocket Books (Simon and Schuster). She's beautiful! She's highly stylized, polished, very New York. And immensely likable. I was late to see my own agent because I enjoyed myself so much with Micki. I could see myself going off to score some Manolos with her. When I told her about our meeting with Bill Frucht, she shook her head of blunt-cut dark hair and declared, categorically: "I'm a commercial kinda gal." And she is. She aims to please women readers with hen lit, hormone lit, and romance-- as well as erotic fiction of every sort. Including vampire erotica! She surprised me by having a nonfiction line of good old health books, pregnancy books, cookbooks, etc.-- aimed at the same group of women who enjoy light, cruise-ship, beach reading. Many of these are reprints.

JENNIFER WEIS, Executive Editor at St. Martin's, who graduated one year ahead of Elizabeth Beier at Yale, is interested in the same sort of fiction as Micki. Jennifer is also interested in mysteries, and in a rather wide variety of nonfiction. She's the coordinator to the film world, and if we have a book with St. Martin's that can easily be turned into a film, she's the editor that will help to orchestrate the deal. I'm not honestly sure how this will work, as this title of hers is new, but the point is, it creates an added incentive to get published there, doesn't it?

I committed a faux pas with Jennifer. I didn't realize that she was Jackie Collins' editor. oops!

Another of our favorites, and the winner of the Adonis Award, granted by Vanessa Mabourakh and Monique Raphel High, was EDWARD KASTENMEIER, Senior Editor at Random House (Knopf). Charismatic, ultra-preppy, and truly with movie-star appeal, Edward is in Bill's category in terms of the titles he publishes. We listened to him grow impassioned over a book on Inuit history, something I actually know something about, and on another book about avenues in Washington, D.C. His tastes are definitely eclectic. He loves thrillers, but they must be psychological and literary. We have some of those, we told him. He's quite the charmer. "Damn that wedding ring!" Vanessa grumbled.

His counterpart is BEN SEVIER at Dutton. Same age, but very different. Buzz cut, California guy, UCLA educated. He loves thrillers of all types. He also handles some media-prone nonfiction projects-- projects where the author has a platform. (See? Our PR team is definitely useful.) I liked Ben a lot. He's just acquired Ken Follett, and edits bestselling author Harlan Coben. Very smart young man. His office was pristine. I asked him whether he was this neat at home. He grinned and admitted that he was. A straight man, that neat? Wow-- his wife really lucked out!

My friend CHARLES (Charlie) SPICER, Executive Editor at St. Martin's, is less interested in the techno-thriller these days, and more in the psychological thriller (Renee, take heed; yes, we pitched you!). But his great passion is the period novel. He wants me to write one (as you probably know, I've written six). His requirements: a story written in first person, and set in Tudor England, the Renaissance, Napoleonic France, or the French Revolution. The protagonist must be a well-bred lady who actually lived during that period. Think "The Boleyn Inheritance," by Philippa Gregory. He himself publishes both Carolly Erickson and Jeanne Kalogrides. He's looking for writers penning such work. Anyone up for that? (My agent says the advances go very high for such books. He was trying to up Charlie's ante.)

ANDREA SCHULZ, Editor-in-Chief of Harcourt Trade, who is one of my personal favorites, likes books set in the Victorian period, but they needn't be about real historic people. They can be about invented ones. She's smart, but earnest, too. Her house is more literary. She's searching for an authentic, unique, strong voice. But her tastes are not just for fiction. She's done a book on the history of American beer, by a college professor. One needs impeccable credentials-- something that keeps coming back to us. "You need cred," Adam Korn told us. Andrea says it in a ladylike fashion. It boils down to the same thing. And it comes back to PLATFORM.

...Which leads me to what it was that the editors all had to say: they were impressed with us. They love what we've done with WriteHigh. They especially like Frank in Indiana and the PR team. They loved the press kits we brought them, and the professionalism that went into the DVDs and the wonderful presentations that Linda and Joel put together for some of you. Others of you were coached by us, and put together some wonderful material as well. But the PR team's material received As all around. We were even asked, by Bill Frucht, whether our PR team could help him with an especially long-winded author of his own. We replied, of course, we'd be glad to. So think about this: there is always a method to our madness when we encourage you to submit to Joel, Jerry, and Linda's ministrations. You get looked at more quickly, and paid attention better.

And Elizabeth Beier noticed the bond paper one of you had printed on. When we ask that you print all manuscripts on BOND PAPER as our WriteHigh trademark, it is always remarked upon. Editors find this sort of expense notable, as it creates an easier reading experience for them. We aim to please editors, because their pleasure may mean a sale.

It was an exhausting trip. Vanessa and I beat the pavement, and sometimes, we slid on it. I often thought I'd be brought home on a stretcher! After a good meeting with Executive Editor MARY GLENN of McGraw-Hill, who is interested in all manner of business books (anything with a business angle will intrigue this intelligent woman, who is even open to working with writers to perfect their projects), we descended into the courtyard of Two Penn Plaza. Our trusty book bag on wheels chose that moment to break open at the seams. We were caught in a wind tunnel, and it was freezing. We had twenty minutes to get to our next appointment. Vanessa said: "Trust me. I'll buy us something new in ten." Needless to say, I thought she was insane. But she did return, with a suitcase on wheels, sturdy and inexpensive. Out went the manuscripts from the broken one, in they went into the new one, and off we were, windblown and disheveled... but what the hey, it was New York!

Charming Assistant Editor REGINA (Gina) SCARPA (St. Martin's Press) asked us all sorts of questions about our company, and whether we would help with the PR once the book came out. Her astuteness impressed me. She was extremely forthcoming, and wants more fiction. Lately, she's been inundated with nonfiction projects. Nevertheless, she became interested in a number of our nonfiction projects. No wonder: they're very good, aren't they...?

It was difficult not to give the same projects to various editors at the same house. Many of them picked them, anyway. We winced, but thought: Well, okay. Let's see who ends up feeling more passionate when the time comes to bid.

Now that I'm back, Vanessa has already had her first solo meeting, with Reagan Arthur of Little, Brown (The Hachette Group). But more on that for later. New York was glorious, empowering, and surprisingly welcoming. It would not have been the success it was had I not had my girls: Susan, working overtime in Beverly Hills, and Vanessa, throwing herself full bore into the act in Manhattan. But, most of all, I had terrific projects, and clients who believed in us. For this, I thank you all.
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Happy New Year [Jan. 7th, 2007|02:38 am]
Dear hearts,

The year 2006 was a year of ups and downs, of hopes, realized and crushed, and of activities that sometimes clumped together like congealed Quaker Oats and, at other times, flowed with the smoothness of Stoli... to use a cliché I’d never let any of you get away with! All right, all right... the latter was a cliché a reviewer once used about one of my novels, so I fell in love with it.

The downs: an agency with whom I’d had good working relations was taken over by a new group. The new crowd pushed the agents with whom I’d been dealing to the side. Their ideas about how writers should be represented did not square with their predecessors’ – or with mine. Some WriteHigh clients lost some time with this agency. My nose is still out of joint about it. I love you guys. My way of dealing with clients is to micromanage all your work, from A to Z, and when it's not done that way by others, I take it personally. (I really do want a great big comma for my birthday, to insert everywhere I feel it belongs. That's just how detail-oriented I am.)

Another down: I can’t seem to find and keep a reliable assistant. I’ve been looking for a P.A. to run some of the routine chores, so Susan and I can handle the more demanding matters. I hired one who looked capable; she flaked on me, after promising she’d mail some packages, and then she kept the petty cash! (She returned the packages, though. Thanks!) I hired another, a nice lady; she fit in around WriteHigh very well, everyone liked her, and she flaked on me, too! “You’re going to have to stop paying them in Prozac,” says my evil husband. Don’t listen to him; I try not to.

But I’d be an ingrate to go on about the downs too long, because there have been so many more ups, and they’ve been so much more significant. Most significant of all, of course, are the WriteHigh clients who published books in 2006. Brava, Jacquie (GET ON TV!) Jordan! Jacquie scored high on some splendid book signings, too, all over Los Angeles, especially at Book Soup, where management wants her to return anytime she publishes again. Brava, Marie (SAVE YOUR HEARING NOW) Moneysmith! Bravo, Jonathan (FLOWERS THAT WOW) Fong! Jonathan's book party was highlighted by his superb bespoke suit depicting pages of his book in small, square panels. For Christmas, he sent me handmade soaps with flowers-that-wow representations, and one showing Ben and me, embracing! Brava, Kimberly Weiner Greene, who scored a hat-trick: book (MY SISTER'S A POP STAR), marriage and pregnancy, all in the same year! She looks adorable.

A mildly premature “Brava!” goes to Jill Smolinski, author of FLIP-FLOPPED. In April, Jill’s second novel, THE NEXT THING ON MY LIST, will be published by Shaye Areheart Books/Crown. Her novel has been picked up by publishers in France, Germany, Australia, the Netherlands, Sweden, Brazil and Korea! Meanwhile, Sally Kim, Jill's editor, made many headlines herself for some of the books she brought to the bestseller list. And here comes an even more mildly premature “Brava!” to Sheila Lowe, whose first novel, POISON PEN, will be published in March by Capital Crime Press!

Another up: we’ve been looking for public relations agents to work with for some time now, to be our in-house team. We’ve finally found a couple of great ones, both of them Hollywood veterans with sterling credentials. Jerry Pam is a former principal of his own agency, Guttman & Pam, and has represented movies (“American Graffiti,” “Shakespeare in Love”) as well as stars. Joel Coler spent 27 years at 20th Century Fox, most of them as head of advertising and publicity. I met Joel when I was a mere wisp of a girl at Barnard College, and Joel had just started at Fox, working for my dad! The list of people Jerry and Joel have repped is too long for my little blog; you can read more about them in the “About the Team” section. Their credits are (to put it mildly) awfully impressive, and as a bonus, Joel brings with him his daughter, Linda Coler Fields, a screenwriter in her own right; Linda brings the female perspective, and the "cool, young" element, to the Boys' team. We believe that these people can do great things for our clients, as they’ve done for Michael Caine, Roger Moore and the Beatles, to drop a few names.

We’re also excited to work with Ramey Warren Black and her firm, Media-Savvy. Ramey and her partner, Steve Lewis, will teach you what you need to know about performing on camera, and will help you put together your own reel. I’ve often said that book publishers, even back in the seventies and eighties, were never very good at publicizing and marketing books. Perhaps realizing this, publishers have more or less abandoned these efforts – and now they expect the writer to do it for them! You’re going to have to hit the publicity trail yourself, so you may as well get good at it. But worry not-- Susan and I are here to hold your hand through the adventure.

In 2006, we became friends and began to work with screenwriter Julie Marsh. Julie also teaches screenwriting. She can help you turn your book into a treatment, and, later, a screenplay. By “help you,” I mean that she can either do it for you, or work with you and teach you to do it yourself. I think Julie will be a terrific resource for WriteHigh, by which (of course!) I mean for you.

In response to a number of requests, we at WriteHigh have cautiously decided to enlarge the role of WriteHigh and finally take that step into literary agency. In Europe, we have already been doing this through Stephanie Cornfield for a couple of years now. Here in the U.S., however, our venture will at first be very limited. We will act as agents for selected American books, and as U.S. agents for some highly-recommended foreign books. Our initial projects are:
• Dorine Michelat’s CACHEZ SE SEIN, a breast-cancer survival memoir published in France by Siloë.
• Andy McDermott’s military-suspense thriller, MANTA. Andy’s first novel, THE HUNT FOR ATLANTIS, will be published in the U.K. by Headline, and also in France, Germany and Italy. Andy comes to us from our friends at Wade & Doherty Literary Agency, Ltd. in London.
• Gilles Gallimard’s OCTOBRE NOIR, an international antiterrorist thriller set in the immediate future. That’s “Gallimard” as in Éditions Gallimard, one of the great French publishing houses, and OCTOBRE NOIR’s French publisher is the author’s own house, GiGa. Gilles projects OCTOBRE NOIR to be the first of a series. We project that Gilles can work with us both as an author, and as a publisher to whom we can submit some of our WriteHigh clients’ work that we feel will fit the French market. Gilles comes to us via our French representative, Stéphanie Cornfield.

I’m very excited about the agency business, which represents a genuine departure for WriteHigh. That’s why I’m starting with a very few titles. I want to see how much business I can generate before jumping in with both feet, because I don’t want to break a heel on my Manolos! Meanwhile, I could use a little help around here! If anyone knows a good part-timer who’s neither manic nor depressive and who can be trusted around sharp objects, please get in touch….

Bonne année,

Monique
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(no subject) [Jan. 6th, 2007|11:01 pm]
Dear hearts,

The year 2006 was a year of ups and downs, to use a cliché I’d never let any of you get away with!

The downs: an agency I’d had good working relations with was taken over by a new group. The new crowd pushed the agents with whom I’d been dealing to the side. Their ideas about how writers should be represented did not square with their predecessors’ – or with mine. Some WriteHigh clients lost some time with this agency. My nose is still out of joint about it.

Another down: I can’t seem to find and keep an assistant. I’ve been looking for a P.A. to run some of the routine chores, so Susan and I can handle the more important matters. I hired one who looked capable; she flaked on me, after promising she’d mail some packages, and then she kept the petty cash! I hired another, nice lady, fit in around WriteHigh very well, everyone liked her, and she flaked on me, too! “You’re going to have to stop paying them in Prozac,” says my evil husband. Don’t listen to him; I try not to.

But I’d be an ingrate to go on about the downs too long, because there have been so many more ups, and they’ve been so much more significant. Most significant of all, of course, are the WriteHigh clients who published their books in 2006. Brava, Jacquie ( Jordan! Brava, Marie Moneysmith! Brava, Kimberly Weiner Greene, who scored a hat-trick: book, marriage and pregnancy, all in the same year! Bravo, Jonathan Fong!
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Writing for a Purpose: Our Need for A THEME [Sep. 4th, 2006|06:05 pm]
Dear hearts,

It's been a long time since I posted anything. It takes me a while to formulate an idea I feel worthwhile enough to share, and to blow up into an entry. Usually, I need to let a thought simmer, percolate, and come to full boil so that it has developed into an obsession. This is what happens when I come up with the idea for a novel. First, there's the germ of a notion. Something haunting. Something about my own life or the life a friend or group of friends. A pattern I watch developing into a syndrome, and this syndrome is sufficiently interesting to tease me.

It's not that different with nonfiction. I watch what's around me, and suddenly, patterns appear. I want to write about the pattern because I feel the pattern is a reflection of our society. I want to say something new about our society; the pattern I've noticed seems fascinating, undiscussed, or undiscussed the way I want to approach it.

Whether the obsession-- because invariably, when I notice something, or want to speak about something, it grows into an obsession-- takes the form of a story, or becomes a case-filled nonfiction book, the same phenomenon will drive it: pure, unadulterated passion. I want to write about something that I believe to be important, different, unique, and that I feel qualified to present in a new, special, essential way.

Let's first discuss fiction.

The idea or emotion underlying a writer's plot is called his theme. It is absolutely, without any doubt, the most important foundation stone of any novel. When you come to me and tell me that your novel is about: "... a boy whose limbs grow out of kilter, then shrink back without warning"; "... a young woman who finds library books that inexplicably write themselves"; "... a damaged FBI agent, half-German, half-Mexican, who becomes embroiled in a murderer's personal life"; "... two gal pals that set out to solve mysteries in the Los Angeles County psychiatric hospital system"; "... a Negro (sic for time period) Lieutenant in the U.S. Army and a Bomb-ravaged Japanese debutante who find each other during the Korean War," I wave you away with a single question: "What is the theme of your book?-- not its plot. Tell me why you wrote it."

Many of you then attempt to divert my attention by misunderstanding the question. You will tell me, in the case of the mixed-race historical saga, that this is your parents' story. In the case of the gal pals, you'll say that you're one of them, and your friend is the other, and this is your everyday world, full of anomalies. The author of the library tale tells me he loves libraries and wanted to set a story in one. And then: the author of the young man whose body grows out of control thought this concept sounded fascinating, and wanted to see how his character would react in this situation-- this 'dystopian' situation none of us 'normal folk' can even conceive of being in. But that's not enough; that's not a driving, passionate emotion unifying the novel. It's just a logline.

You need to begin with your theme, not with your plot. If the dystopian boy carries his character flaws on the outside, that might be the theme. In that case, we have Pinocchio. A brilliant conceit, and one which was brilliantly executed and understood by all children. There has to be a reason-- a point!-- for the author to will his character this set of flaws. If they simply occur at random, we have no theme. And your reader will become bored and wonder: "What's the author's point?"

If the FBI agent simply becomes entangled in a murderer's life because the author, for whatever personal reason, is fascinated by mixed ethnicity and this character's messed-up background, she needs to work this out into a simple theme. What is the idea or emotion underlying the plot? But here is a writer who does know her central theme. The idea in this case is: "There, but for the grace of God, walk I." The FBI agent, who is wrestling with great personal demons, recognizes that the murderer, similarly flawed, could be her.

You need to become obsessed. A life problem needs to gnaw at you. You need to become the Little Match Girl (remember her, from Andersen's dark, magical tale of the same name?) looking in, as we all are mandated to do as writers. You are looking in at life, at the world, at the people you know. You are NOT looking to the bizarre except as metaphor. Science fiction if wonderful, and so is fantasy, in that these genres allow us to mirror real life and tell real stories, magically clothed in remarkable new digs. But they still need to be recognizable as Earth stories. That's why one of my favorite of our WriteHigh writers, Greg Koch, calls his alternate universe 'Irith.' Yes, his Irith isn't our Earth-- but its inhabitants are human, nonetheless. In every way. Just as Spock, bless his soul, was much more human than not. I wasn't kidding about his soul.

The closer you can get to real life, the better. Those of us from our original WriteHigh home class remember Tony Miller, the deceased author who used to sit in and help me teach that class. He used to say: "Don't be far-fetched when you don't need to be. If you can call a tree a tree, don't call it a 'klortez,' just because it's on an alien planet." I had a discussion last week with one of our writers in another state. He said to me: "Imagine: once again, the girl I liked turned me into a friend. I'm so tired of this." I answered him: "You know, this is miserable, and my heart breaks for you. But there's a silver lining. You can write a wonderful novel about this entire two-year period. The young man who gives his heart and is continally misunderstood for the best friend, knows he's doing something wrong, yet doesn't know what.... This would be a novel of manners, a funny-sad novel, short, caustic, cute, poignant." My writer said: "No. I'd have to turn the 'me' guy into a porno star. His co-star pushes aside his erection and keeps talking about 'Bill,' the guy she's in love with. And so he's got nowhere to go with the erection and his feelings for this girl he's just had great sex with-- simulated, of course." But the problem with this scenario is that it's just slapstick, and it fails on the poignancy level. It's a short story at best. It's missing a theme.

You cannot write your novel without first having pondered that theme. You cannot write that book without fine-tuning that theme. I cringe when my writers come up with a gimmick and start to write without me. I need to sit down with you guys for several sessions to work with you on the theme before even one word gets written. I need to probe your obsession and become your Bookshrink. WHY the library books that write themselves? Why the out-of-kilter body? Your idea may be fabulous (in both senses of the word!), but I need to know it's tied to a central theme. Because there is a world of difference between a Gimmick and a Theme.

And there is a world of difference between a cute scene between two gal pals having fun at a dysfunction hospital, and a theme-centered examination of dysfunctional clients. WHY are the gal pals at this specific hospital? WHY did you, the author, choose this scene for humor? It can't just be a random funny scene. It has to lead back to the central theme.

I've harped and harped and harped, carped and carped and carped, about the fact that every novel needs to answer the question: "WHAT'S THE POINT?" And every chapter needs to answer the same question. And every paragraph needs to answer that question as well. In terms of the paragraph, we don't need to worry about the theme; but in terms of the book and the chapter, "point" and "theme" walk hand in hand.

Now, let's examine nonfiction.

Are you obsessed with the need to give the world a message? Do you know something other people don't? Are you an expert? Oh, good: you are. You know all about elder care, and can help all of us with parenting our aging parents. Or, in the past, you had a terrible time with men, but have learned through personal experience how to change your M.O. You are an expert only in that you've learned what not to do, and if you have, others can. Your book can teach women to better respect the vows they can make to uphold their personal integrity. Great! You can teach them what to do, as well as what not to do. Or, you are a scientist who used to work as a Clinton White House Adviser, and you see the country going to hell in Moses' hand-basket. YES! Moses is at fault, and so is Jesus, and so are all the extremist religious leaders. Zealot religion is killing our nation, and you can prevent this by righting the balance in favor of science. Stem-cell research, abortion on demand, an end to deforestation to fill loggers' pockets... these are but some of the wrongs you mean to put back on the public's agenda once Robertson, Papism, and the Bush Administration have been thrust into the circular bin, as my mother-in-law used to call the trash can.

Do I hear passion here? You bet I do! Do I hear themes in these nonfiction books? Without a doubt. But sometimes, even in nonfiction, I need to ask the author to step up and clarify what that theme is. Some of your books are so filled with bright ideas that the central theme gets clouded over. When the foliage is so lush that the trunk becomes invisible, we need to clear some of that lushness away. Remember: in nonfiction as well as fiction, the theme must always shine brightly, and remain evident. You can't lose your readership by going off on too many enchanting tangents.

In the case of the author of the book about women and relationships, passion for the central message must always be more vital than creativity, or adjunct messages. There will always be other books. The nonfiction author often believes he or she has to state everything in this book, now. But the fact is, there will indeed be other books. Take a deep breath, and remember: your theme is one central idea. Keep the others shored up for the next few projects. Too many themes spoil a first book. Your reader will get dizzy.

Where a novelist may lose his way because he's never formulated his theme, and has just set on his course developing his plot, the nonfiction writer may get lost because his theme is so involving that he just can't stop himself from overdeveloping it into tangents. Watch out. Both paths are dangerous.

What you need to remember is that the theme should guide you. You can't go anywhere without your guide. If you become afraid you might take a wrong turn, ask your guide. That guide will never lead you astray.

And so, mes cheris, bon voyage!

Love,

Monique
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First Entry! My New York Trip, and Stephanie's Success Stories [Mar. 26th, 2006|04:46 pm]
Dear hearts,

This is my first blog, and my first entry. Can you believe it? Monique has entered the Twenty-first Century at long last, dragged in feet first by our gorgeous and talented web-mistress, Jess McNeil, who declared: "It's so easy!" ...Well, it actually is! Carefully guided by Jess, I am navigating these waters with great nervousness, but she has promised me-- sworn, even-- that I shan't be gobbled up by a techie shark.

The principal purpose of this blog is to be a literary journal. On February 24, I went to New York City to market material for my WriteHigh writers and authors. It was very cold... so cold that when I stepped off the plane, I could barely feel my face. Great place to wear my mink coat! I love New York. For those of you who don't already know it, I'm a Barnard girl. I went there when Columbia was still a single-sex school, and I was told that the three famous professors for whom I had crossed the Atlantic as a French foreign student would not accept me in their classes. (Columbia was the men's school across the way; it's still the university of which Barnard is a part.) These were Lionel Trilling, Gilbert Highet, and Moses Hadas. I remained in the country, nonetheless, and here I still am.

I always try to stay at the Park Central Hotel, on 56th Street and Seventh Avenue. The taxi driver did his usual and dumped my bags literally in the middle of the avenue, cursing at me. Okay; that's New York. When I finally reached my hotel room, I discovered that the Department of Transportation had searched my larger suitcase. No big deal, I assumed. Famous last thoughts. Someone had gouged my leather goods with a sharp tool, run through my cashmere sweater bags with the same tool, ripped off the spine from a book I had been reading, and then, oozed tar into my apricot Sergio Rossi heels.(It turns out that the tar was in fact blood, and we think that the gouger gouged him- or herself, then bled all over the inside of the shoes.) I wanted to weep. Instead, I ordered room service.

The trip immediately improved the next day. Whenever I leave LA, I start to feel better. The migraines which afflict me tend to dissipate, and this time, I felt absolutely healthy the entire time. New York smog is much better for me than our LA smog. I was subjected to snow, slush, rain, windstorms, but I was thrilled to be there. A dear, dear friend, international economist Stavros Thomadakis, was heading a conference a few blocks away, and we were able to spend time together. I saw two precious friends from college, and my former Barnard intern, Kineret Fischer. (She is now about to go to Tuscany to work on a horse farm!) And, of course, I was also able to conduct a lot of important literary business.

I visited many agents and editors. I learned about new trends. So, you ask, what's going on in New York, center of American book publishing, right now? Editors are looking for erotica. Tasteful erotica, blended with romance. Erotica for women. No penises oozing cum, but wonderful sex scenes. No leaving it to the imagination, ladies. No cheating and saying "dot dot dot." Readers-- the Franks and Susies in Indiana-- want details. Details expressed in beautiful, erotic prose. As I say, do not for a moment think HUSTLER. Think "Story of O."

What else is "in"? Memoirs. James Frey did not for a moment stop the hunger for a good memoir. But the memoir has to have an unusual hook. What about your life makes it different enough to make it stand out, and why would anyone be inspired, moved, changed if he/she read it? A good memoir transforms the reader in some form. Think of "This Boy's Life," by Tobias Wolff, which forged a superlative writer. Readers learn how a youth survived a difficult childhood and pulled strength and genius out of the mire; if he could do it, so can they. "The Kiss," by Kathryn Harrison, is haunting; she was pulled into a love affair with her father when she was already in her late teens. Her adult novels are informed by this business, and we can trace his nefarious influence even in her latest one, "Envy." As readers, we ask ourselves: How was my life informed by the most devastating elements of my adolescence, and how can I draw healing from the pain and the still-unanswered questions? In Harrison's case, we learn that sometimes, you cannot fully put the past behind you, but you can gracefully allow it to settle.

Female editors want stories about female themes: nonfiction books about women who have survived, or are trying to survive, the horrors in their male-dominate countries, for instance. They want themes that are eternal, but with a current, modern, 2006 twist. This translates equally well to fiction. Editors who hitherto loved easy mysteries are now drawn to smarter thrillers with a noir edge, which treat themes that provoke deeper thoughts: adoption, baby-thefts, family relationships gone so far askew that they may never be set right.

Chick-lit mysteries are popular, chick lit is still popular, and psychological thrillers are definitely in demand. "It's all a matter of voice," an agent said. (But that's truly nothing very new at all.)

What fascinated me was the quest for science. Male editors and female editors, as well as agents, want books penned by scientists. They are looking for science written for the smart layperson, explaining life and its various layers. Why are we who we are, and what were we once? How does that gibe with technology? Tell us, clearly, how we fit into the universe! They are looking for the new Stephen Jay Gould, who recently died, and for a new Carl Sagan. Thanks to Ben, I have found him for them. He is Jeff Schweitzer, of comely Austin, Texas. He was a Science Advisor in he Clinton White House. With a double doctorate in neurophysiology and marine biology, this lively, funny, expressive scientist and his partner, Giuseppe Notarbartolo di Sciara of the Tethys Research Institute of Milan, Italy, have written several books on science ethics. This discipline straddles philosophy and science. I have to tell you, when I first began to read their work, I couldn't put it down! Mention of this writer and his co-author made everyone rise like Jacks-in-the-box in New York.

Historical novels are sought-after. Look at the current bestseller lists. But editors are no longer looking for generational sagas. "Go for mother-daughter stories," Charlie Spicer, Executive Editor at St. Martin's Press, advised. "Or linear, well-researched tales. Or mock-diaries by figures of the day."

And, of course, cultural trends are always hot topics. Be sure to gauge what's hot today, as it may not be so hot by the time your proposal has been submitted.

What's not in? "The comb-over," said Agent Wendy Sherman, laughing.

Stephanie Cornfield, our WriteHigh agent in Europe, was with me for part of the trip. She accompanied me on some of my agent and editor calls. Stephanie is also my cousin. I trained her in the business, and she has taken off like a nightingale, singing sweet tales about our authors. While we are not agents in the U.S., we function as an international literary agency abroad. She left New York to attend the London Book Fair, where she represented WriteHigh projects as well as a few she picked up from our agent collaborators in New York and Los Angeles. Stephanie made some important connections in London, and picked up some new books there for representation in the United States. She then went back to Paris, where she attended Le Salon du Livre (the Paris Book Fair), and made inroads with major French publishers. She managed to interest big French houses in some of your books, as well as others which she had picked up in London!

Stephanie will be back in Los Angeles in a few weeks, and will be scheduling meetings with some of you through Susan.

While in New York, I was introduced to some excellent restaurants, my favorite being Thalassa in Tribeca. I had absolutely no time to shop! On the worst day of the snow and slush, I arrived at another cousin's house (Lorraine Vidal, the mother of our London rep, Jessica Cornfeld), and my boots proceeded to turn to black dust on her superb Persian rug! Undaunted, Lorraine dug up a pair of shoes another friend had left at her home, and lent them to me. Lorraine and I do not share the same shoe size, and neither does the other lady; but at least I was able to hobble back to the taxi that drove me back to the hotel!

I am now back in Los Angeles, where a migraine attacked me the very evening of my return. I hit the ground running, with a series of extremely successful events celebrating the book publication of our client, Jacquie Jordan, author of "GET ON TV!" Two more events are left, one on March 30, and the final one on April 2. I hope that all of you who live in the LA area will come to an event, because Jacquie is a superb and entertaining speaker!

For a first entry, this one held its ground, didn't it, you guys...? I now send you love, hugs, and many good wishes for great writing, good reading, and a pleasant week.

A bientot!

Monique
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