The Confines of Women's Fiction

What is women’s fiction? And why is it even a genre, when men’s fiction doesn’t exist? Is women’s fiction meant to be written and read only by female writers, while fiction written by men is deemed literary or upmarket and is read by men and women alike? My recent experiences in the query trenches remind me of the movie, “American Fiction,” which pokes fun at the publishing industry for trying to pigeonhole work by Black authors as “African American fiction,” regardless of plot, rather than categorizing them as upmarket or literary.

The Women’s Fiction Writers’ Association (WFWA) refers to women’s fiction as a (woman’s) emotional journey, typically with a hopeful ending. Lithub defines it as “protagonists who struggle with specifically feminine flaws.” And according to wikipedia, it’s “an umbrella term for women-centered books that focus on women's life experiences that are marketed to female readers.” Presumably this means motherhood, marriage and romantic relationships, sister relationships, daughter relationships, female friendships, and other non-career, traditionally female roles.

In May 2021, I finished the first draft of a novel (my third) centered around a tech startup. It does NOT meet the definition of women’s fiction for a number of reasons. First, it alternates among four characters: two women and two men. Second, a tech startup? Definitely not a typical women’s setting, since the tech industry is dominated by men. Third, while three of the main characters have positive, hopeful arcs; the fourth, a woman, does not. For the past three years, I’ve edited, revised, and polished this novel by receiving and incorporating feedback from critique partners and two rounds of beta readers, including paid professionals. I also hired two sensitivity readers and enlisted an editor to review and critique my query package. But for the last six months of querying the manuscript, two out of the three requests for fulls that I’ve received have been from agents to whom I’ve pitched (and paid to pitch) in person, at writing conferences. No agent whom I’ve queried online has requested even partial pages. To their credit, the three agents who requested my full manuscript read it quickly and responded within one to four weeks. After receiving countless form rejections from agents who haven’t read any pages of my manuscript, I’ve made a couple of observations/conclusions, that may be totally off.

1) If you’re a woman who is not writing genre fiction (e.g. historical, romance, fantasy, suspense, thriller, mystery, sci-fi, speculative), agents expect you to write women's fiction. Not pure upmarket or literary. The published female authors of pure upmarket and literary fiction are few and far between: Barbara Kingsolver, Jennifer Haigh, Ann Patchett, Marilynne Robinson, Joyce Carol Oates, and others.

2) Despite the fact that my third novel deals with complex themes (e.g. the illusion of meritocracy) and revolves around topical issues (startups and the tech industry), realistic workplace novels apparently don’t sell. Sci-fi workplace novels and/or speculative workplace novels might have a better shot, but realistic multi-character workplace novels, even suspenseful ones that alternate between personal and work lives, aren’t deemed publishable or commercially viable.

I can name a handful of successful workplace novels, but most of them have a speculative, sci-fi, or thriller element: WHISPER NETWORK by Chandler Baker (which qualifies as a women’s fiction novel because of its positive, female-centric themes of female friendship and empowerment but contains a thriller element); THE CIRCLE by Dave Eggers (definitely more sci-fi than realistic); RIPE by Sarah Rose Etter (slim plot with a speculative element that manifests as a black hole hovering above the protagonist when she’s depressed); THE BOYS’ CLUB by Erica Katz and THE PARTNER TRACK by Helen Wan — both about female lawyers who navigate their misogynistic law firms and ultimately have hopeful endings.

I love my third novel and do intend to publish it at some point — possibly with a small press like Black Rose Writing. But first I intend to edit and polish my fourth manuscript (of which I just completed the first draft), which qualifies more as women’s fiction and may have a better chance at finding an agent and being published by a bigger press.

Navigating the competitive and confusing publishing industry can be discouraging; but luckily, the part of the process that I enjoy the most is writing and editing. It’s what has always inspired and motivated me. And by having a plan for next steps, I can mitigate the downside of not finding the audience I hoped to reach.

Finding Hope in Nature and Art

Often during the bleakest periods of history, people seek refuge in Nature and the arts. In the nineteen-thirties, during the Great Depression, this was especially true. As part of the WPA Federal Project Number One, the US Government commissioned artists, musicians, actors, and writers to create murals, paintings, literature, photography, and plays. Theater and musical groups toured the US, bringing hope to millions of Americans, who could momentarily forget their difficult circumstances and appreciate beauty.

The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) also contributed to the nation’s relief by creating new trails and campgrounds at almost every national park. In turn, Americans had the chance to enjoy Nature at a small cost, then return refreshed and inspired to their hard day-to-day lives.

In both of my historical novels, the protagonists seek refuge in a national park. In the forthcoming THE VIEW FROM HALF DOME, set in 1934, Isabel flees to Yosemite after a tragic accident and falls in love with the park’s majestic beauty. There, she meets Yosemite’s first female ranger-naturalist, Enid Michael, who helps her learn new skills and discover an inner strength she never knew she had.

Through her magnificent public wildflower garden, which she oversees with help from the Cascades CCC boys, Enid strives to inspire visitors and ultimately preserve the National Parks. Her friend, the legendary photographer Ansel Adams, also hopes to protect Yosemite by photographing its wild, untainted beauty, so people can see what’s truly at stake—and at risk of being destroyed by loggers.

Then, as in now, people turn to the beauty of Nature, literature, art, and music to find a little reprieve from economic and political turmoil, while reconnecting with each other and themselves.

Writers' Tips: Read Like Crazy!

Like most writers, I enjoy reading books in my favorite genres: contemporary, literary, historical, mystery/suspense, memoir/biography. In fact, one of the ways I distract myself during the publication process (see my previous blog post) is by reading.

It may seem obvious, but reading—a lot—will allow you to grow as a writer. In addition to occupying your time with an enjoyable hobby, you can pick up great tips about what works in a book and what doesn’t and apply it to your own writing. Here are a few things to watch for (and take notes on) while you read:

• Word Choice and Description - Some writers use beautiful metaphors and similes that express emotions, feelings, and descriptions in new and exciting ways. Take note of these when you read!

• Plot Pacing - Does the plot move forward at a fast clip, so that you stay up late to read another chapter? Or does it drag so much that you put it aside for days, weeks, or forever? Consider which plot elements cause you to lose interest or keep reading. Does the action contain conflict and stakes, enough to make you interested in what will happen next? Does each scene propel the plot forward? Does the inciting incident/catalyst occur early enough in the story to pique your interest?

• Character Development - Do you sympathize with the protagonist and supporting characters? Are their wishes and desires easily attainable, or do sufficiently high barriers stand in their way? How do they treat other characters? Are they standoffish, kind, or somewhere in between? Are their actions and behavior believable or wildly inconsistent for no apparent reason? Do they undergo a credible change (arc) by the end of the story?

• Dialogue - Is the dialogue interesting and believable? Or is it so jarring and stilted that you stop reading altogether?

• Voice - Is the voice (Point of View) consistent throughout the novel? Is it accessible/relatable?

These are just a few areas to notice while you read. Bottom line: if you get into the habit of reading critically and assessing what works well and what doesn’t each time you pick up a book, your own writing will benefit tremendously from the experience.

The Waiting Game of the Publication Process

As much as I love writing full time (which has been my dream for many years), there’s one aspect of it that I positively hate: waiting. Writing gives me the power to control my characters’ worlds, emotions, conflicts, and arcs. In short, I pull the strings. Conversely, during the publication journey, I’m forced to put the ball in someone else’s court and wait for him or her to deliver feedback, a cover design, a response to a query, a decision on a contest, a review, the final PDF of my book.

Usually I can distract myself with another project—revising another manuscript or beginning the first draft of a brand new novel. At the moment (or rather, for the past week), I have not done either. Last Thursday, I submitted final line edits to my publisher for The View from Half Dome, and in the meantime, I’m waiting for tomorrow’s meeting with my critique partners to hear their feedback on the ending of my contemporary novel-in-process, A Nebulous Startup. I have ideas for a fourth novel and have even begun some research and a word file, but I’m not ready to begin a first draft. First I want to finish editing A Nebulous Startup and send it to beta readers + at least one South Asian sensitivity reader early next year.

Another great way to occupy time while waiting is to listen to writing podcasts and recorded webinars. (I highly recommend Donald Maas’ recorded writing webinars and The Shit No One Tells You about Writing podcasts). And of course, reading great novels is a favorite!

How do you distract yourself while waiting?

COVER Reveal!

I’m so excited to share the cover of my second historical novel, THE VIEW FROM HALF DOME (publication date April 20, 2023) with Black Rose Writing.

Preorder now at Black Rose Writing (https://www.blackrosewriting.com/historicaladventure/theviewfromhalfdome) and use promo code PREORDER2023 for a 15% discount!

1934. Isabel longs to escape her squalid San Francisco neighborhood. While her mother struggles to make ends meet and her older brother serves with the CCC at Yosemite, she manages the household and comforts her younger sister with stories about an idyllic imaginary world. Desperate for a taste of freedom, she takes matters into her own hands—with tragic consequences.

Distraught, she flees to Yosemite, where she falls in love with its majestic beauty. Inspired by Enid Michael, the park's only female ranger-naturalist, Isabel hikes, learns new skills, and discovers an inner strength she never knew she had. But even as she relishes her independence, she hides her grief, along with a terrible secret she fears will destroy relations with her family. And when she receives upsetting news from home, Isabel must decide if she can assist her family without sacrificing her chance at a new life.

Rich with historical detail and lyrical prose, The View from Half Dome is a moving coming of age story about hope, forgiveness, nature's healing power, and the courage to overcome societal boundaries and grow, regardless of age.

Changing A Novel's Title

A week ago, I read an excellent blog post by the NC Piedmont Laureate, Heather Bell Adams. Heather explains the importance of choosing a great title and provides tips to use in title selection.

Her post prompted me to seriously reconsider the title I had chosen for my second historical novel. The original title was the name of the fantasy world that my main character and her sister had created to ward off their loneliness and sadness during the months following their father’s death. The name also symbolized the magical “bubble” of Yosemite and its residents.

However, the name of that imaginary land evokes action-adventure, fantasy, and even sci-fi genres, not historical fiction. Belatedly, I realized that many readers who dislike those genres might be turned off immediately and not give the book a second thought. What’s more, the title seemingly has nothing to do with a young woman’s journey (both internal and external), or with Yosemite, the place where she discovers herself.

As a result, I revisited old titles I had previously considered for the novel, along with new ones. I wanted something simple yet meaningful that would convey hope and promise, along with inspiration of a beautiful place: Yosemite. Ultimately, I chose The View from Half Dome, since Half Dome is the name of the mountain at Yosemite that Isabel, the protagonist, climbs with her mentor, Enid Michael, Yosemite’s first female ranger-naturalist. On the summit of that mountain, Isabel finally realizes what she must do. The clarity she gains, along with the reminder that she is part of something larger and longer lasting, gives her courage to make a difficult decision and take her next steps.

I am lucky that my publisher, Black Rose Writing, allowed me to make the title change to The View from Half Dome. The next step will be to collaborate on the cover design, which I hope to share in the next two months. Special thanks to Heather for her inspiring post!

The Handyman (a short story)

Note: I wrote this last summer, but haven’t had luck in publishing it. Hope you enjoy!

The man was taking much too long for such a small job. For the last three and a half hours, Ingrid had heard a whining blast from the opposite end of the house, punctuated by sporadic cracks of a hammer. And now on top of everything, her stomach was growling. Pressing a hand to her belly, she thought longingly about swallowing her favorite veggie soup in slow, measured spoonfuls, dipping chunks of sourdough into her bowl. But she wasn’t about to enter the kitchen while the man perched on a stepladder inches from the table and showered her with clouds of dust. Anyway, he was bound to finish soon or take a break.

Propped on her brocaded chair in the downstairs master, she tried to focus on the mystery novel in her lap. Surely by the time she finished another chapter, he’d be done. But after a few minutes, the shriek of the electric sander and the dull ache in her stomach proved too distracting, and she croaked, “Oh, for God’s sake!” 

She imagined her late husband scolding, “Inga! Why are you hiding here like a mouse in your own home?” A thin compression of his lips, the familiar quick shake of his head.

Investigate, she told herself.  Find out what he’s doing, ask how much longer he’ll be. Hoisting herself up, she lumbered shakily to her feet. Her reading glasses slipped from her nose and bounced from their chain over her breasts. At the double doors, she peered into the marble foyer, where sunlight illuminated the balustrade of the wide, curved staircase. Her orange cat scampered around the corner and into the bedroom. From the kitchen echoed a solid thwack of metal against wood and then the shrill, incessant hum of the sander.

Cautiously, she shuffled down the foyer toward the family room.  Each step cost her in ragged gasps, and she paused to catch her breath. Her doctor had advised her to lose weight and avoid sodium on account of her hypertension and a new, concerning tachycardia he’d warned could be atrial fibrillation at her advanced age. Now her heart gave an erratic kick, and for a brief, dreadful moment, she felt dizzy. Bracing a hand against the wall, she forced herself to inhale and exhale slowly, as the nurse had demonstrated, until the lightheaded feeling passed.

After half a dozen more labored steps, Ingrid reached the family room and gazed down its length to the adjacent white-tiled kitchen. The man was balancing on the stepladder, sanding the inner frame of the door between the kitchen and patio. She glimpsed the back of his dusty tee shirt and blue jeans.  With a sigh, she realized he would never hear her, let alone see her; she would have to keep going.  Panting, she padded across the Oriental rug, past the paintings, leather sofa and loveseat, mahogany coffee table. At last she was in the kitchen, standing directly behind him. As she considered how to catch his attention, she noticed mounded pillows of sand on the kitchen tile, swirls of fine particles along the edges of the family room hardwoods.

“Excuse me,” she tried, but her voice emerged in a windy squeak, and he didn’t turn.

“Hello,” she called, louder. The sander’s whir swallowed her words.

Nervously she approached the side of the stepladder. The man had metallic-slivered sideburns and reeked of sweat. Worried about startling him into falling, she waved, tentatively, hoping he would spy her from his peripheral vision.

“Hello,” she repeated, and this time he turned toward her with a jerk and immediately shut off the sander.

“Didn’t see you,” he muttered. The sander, which reminded Ingrid of a bulky clothes iron, dangled at his side.

When she looked squarely at his face, she recoiled in shock. He must have been in his forties or early fifties, but his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his skin had a gray pallor, as if he suffered from an illness. On second glance, she realized he was coated in grime and detritus from the door. He had a small paunch, and the top of his head was bald and shiny. A grizzled beard sprouted around his chin.

“I wanted to see how you were getting on,” she said, her voice gruff and shaky. Taking a big breath, she grasped a column by the door for balance.

He shrugged. “Turned out to be a little tricky. Top part of the door broke away from the frame, so I had to nail the jamb back in place, and that caused it to sit too high, so I’m sanding it down.”

His explanation reminded her of the jargon that Elliott, a Vice President at IBM, had used when describing something at work. She had rarely paid attention.  Perhaps mistaking her blank face for confusion, the man climbed down the ladder, wiping his free hand on his jeans, and she took a step backward. Before he could launch another explanation, she raised a hand. “How long will it be?”

“Ma’am?”

“When do you expect to finish?”

“Not sure.  A day? Could be two.”

She gaped at him, and he said, “I can leave and come back, if that’s easier for you.” A quick twist of his lips.

She coughed, struggling for breath, and finally heaved herself into a chair at the kitchen table. “I don’t understand,” she managed. “I thought it was a simple job.  I thought it just needed to be sanded until it opens and shuts more easily.”

He shook his head grimly. “Nope. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, ma’am. I  had to hammer deck screws to bolt the jamb to the frame, cause regular nails are too short. Also, I’ve got to go slowly so I don’t shave off too much and leave a big gap.”

Disappointment lapped through her in tiny waves as she realized not only would she not enjoy a peaceful lunch, she wouldn’t have an orderly kitchen for at least a day, best case.

“What would you like me to do?” the man asked. “You want me to finish this sometime later?” He watched her.

She blinked and looked away, searching for a logical way forward.  Elliott had always handled the handymen and house projects. Not long before he died unexpectedly of a stroke, he’d even arranged for the roof to be replaced. Two days after his memorial service, Ingrid had woken to a distant hammering and clattering, and realized, after pulling on her housecoat and peeking through the curtains, he had come through one last time - the new roof his posthumous gift.

Although it was a matter of time before something in the house would fail and require attention, Ingrid had avoided considering that certainty. Sure enough, when her grandchildren had visited over summer break, the door between the kitchen and patio had begun to stick as they galloped in and out of the house. Jessica, Ingrid’s daughter, had rationalized it was swelling because of the humidity and would return to normal in cooler weather. But now, in late September, the door had continued to stick to the point that Ingrid could no longer enjoy her morning coffee on the patio among the trees and birds. In exasperation, she’d phoned the first handyman she’d found in the mail services pamphlet.

The man cleared his throat, and when Ingrid glanced up, his face was drawn and impatient, and she knew she needed to say something. “If you leave now, when would you come back?” she asked.

His eyes went wide, and he laid the sander on the floor. “Don’t know. I’ve got a couple other jobs to finish this week, so it might not be till early next.”

She released a long sigh.

“And here’s another problem,” he said, his eyes acquiring a cunning look that made her suddenly afraid.

“What?”

“See here, the door won’t close now.” He demonstrated by swinging the door on its hinge toward the frame.

“Won’t close?” she cried. “Why?”

“When I nailed the jamb to the frame, it raised the top of the door, so now it’s a little too high. That’s why I’ve got to sand it.”

She swallowed as comprehension slowly dawned.  Pull yourself together, Inga, she warned. Imitating the brisk tone Elliott had used with service providers, she said, “Then I need you to finish it today. I can’t have a door that won’t close.”

A smirk crawled around his mouth. “No, ma’am, I didn’t expect you could. Wouldn’t be safe.”

As soon as he said it, she shuddered. How could she have painted herself into such a corner, made herself so utterly vulnerable?

“Can you finish today?” she asked, trying to keep anxiety from creeping into her voice.

He studied her, his eyes smug and confident. “That’s my aim.”

“Then I’ll let you work in peace.” Her hands trembled.  She tried to stand, but she couldn’t push onto her feet in time and sank down heavily into her chair.  

Suddenly the man was beside her, his hand on her elbow.  She flinched, whiffing the pungent odor of his sweat and a stale cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes. “Go ahead, I’ve got you,” he said. His fingers tightened around her elbow.

“I..I can’t,” she said.  She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to be ushered from her own kitchen, as though she were the visitor. The woozy feeling returned, and she closed her eyes, letting her chin sag toward the table. Inside her lids, she saw bright, exploding dots.

“Ma’am?” the man was saying. His voice seemed to come from far away, from the other end of the house. “Are you all right?”

Oh, this was bad. Her heart was going fast, tapping out an irregular rhythm.  Worse, she was alone with this stranger, at his mercy.  An array of horrors whirled, kaleidoscope-like, through her head. He could rape her, but probably not, as she was eighty years old, and he’d likely be disinterested. Of course, it wasn’t unheard of; she’d read of such cases. But more likely, he could rob her, take her pocketbook and ransack her jewelry, while leaving her door broken, and she’d never be able to do a thing. After all, she’d picked him out of a pamphlet… Honeydo Man, which might not even be a real business. For that matter, she didn’t even know his actual name. Or, and she gulped hard, he could rob and kill her.

“Can you hear me?”

She forced herself to open an eye and mustered her voice. “Yes. I’m just a little tired, is all.”

“I can help you to bed, if you’d like.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I’ll stay here.  Was just going to heat up some soup.”

 “I’ll hold off using the sander. Maybe do it by hand.  My mother used to get bad migraines, and any little noise made it worse.”

“I don’t have a migraine,” she said, and peeked at him. He was rocking on his heels, eyes lowered, hands in pockets.

“Like some water?”

“I can get it.” She tried to lift her head, but the tiny dots swarmed in front of her, and her heart was still racing, her face flushed. She attempted several steadying breaths.

“No, you can’t,” the man said firmly. “Wait here.” A rustling as he opened cabinets, then the rushing of water at the sink.  She wanted to protest, but knew she was too weak.

“Here.” She heard a tiny clink as he set the glass on the table.

“Thank you,” she murmured.  She tried to draw herself up, and suddenly a bear-like paw wrapped around her head, bringing the glass to her lips. Obediently, she swallowed.

“Want me to call someone?” he asked quietly, his voice too close. “Relative or neighbor?”

The terrible truth was she had no one close enough to help. She didn’t know the neighbors; she left the house too infrequently, and those who’d been here when they moved in almost twenty years ago had since left. Jim, her eldest, was over three hundred miles away, and they’d barely spoken since Elliott’s funeral. She guessed Jim somehow blamed her for Elliott’s death, though he’d never admit it. And Jessica was on the opposite coast, up near Seattle, in no position to speed over at a moment’s notice. During her summer visit, she’d casually mentioned a new assisted living home in North Raleigh with a big cafeteria and spacious rooms. But before her daughter could go on, Ingrid had silenced her, warning they would not talk of this. Not now, possibly never.

At the table, Ingrid shook her head, corralled every ounce of strength to raise her head and meet the man’s eyes. The dots receded, and she took another deep breath, willing her heart rate to return to normal. “I’m better now. It was just a little dizzy spell.”

The man watched her, obviously unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yes, of course.” She waved a hand. “Go on with what you were doing. Please.”

He squinted at the door. “If I sand by hand, it’ll go slower, but at least I won’t overshoot. It won’t make near as much noise, either.”

When he cast her a look, she nodded and took another sip. To her relief, he riffled through a toolbox by the wall and removed a sanding block. Funny how she’d read him wrong. She saw now he was just an ordinary guy, not much older than Jim.

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

He glanced up. “Al.”

“Al,” she repeated. “Thank you for helping me.”

He scoured the block against the door frame in steady strokes. “My mother used to get migraines and dizzy spells.”

She started to say it wasn’t a migraine. He continued rubbing the block with strong, swift movements. She could only see the side of his face, perspiration glistening on his brow.  After a while, she decided she was well enough to stand and get her soup, though admittedly, she’d feel awkward eating while he worked.

She fumbled around the cabinet for a bowl, retrieved the tub of homemade carrot, potato, and pea soup from the fridge. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked suddenly.

“Ma’am?” He stopped sanding, the block suspended above the door frame.

She repeated the question, and he glanced at the brown tub on the counter and shook his head. “No thanks.”

She wanted to protest it wouldn’t be right for him to skip lunch and work on an empty stomach. Then again, he would probably charge her an exorbitant fee for his time, including his missed lunch; undoubtedly he assumed she was rich. But in truth, she’d only ever been upper middle class at most. She and Elliott hadn’t even come close to the same income bracket as those snobs with live-in housekeepers, let alone the New York bankers with homes in the Hamptons. 

Still, she was aware her house might appear opulent with its tapestries, Oriental rugs, glass figurines, paintings, marble and hardwood floors - windfalls from Elliott’s IBM pension and stock options, their own lucky dabbles in the stock market. Foolish trinkets for an old lady to own, when at this age, she knew, she should be reducing her clutter, giving away baubles to her children and grandchildren, not hoarding with the abandonment of a woman who had decades ahead of her.

“How about some sourdough bread?” she asked.

 “I love sourdough. I’ll have a slice if you can spare it.”

Beaming, she arranged two large hunks onto a plate, topped them with butter, set them on the table at Elliott’s old place. The microwave beeped, and she removed the soup and sat.

“I guess it would be rude to eat standing up,” Al said, plopping into Elliott’s chair. “Tastes good,” he added, chewing.

“It’s from the Harris Teeter down the road.” She was grateful he didn’t watch her while she savored her soup; it made eating near him less awkward. Recalling a topic that had often animated Elliott in the same chair where Al sat, she ventured, “My husband would say you’re unusual.”

Al raised a brow. After a moment, he said, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

Ingrid chose her words carefully. “Because you seem like a hard worker.”

Al picked up the remaining piece of bread and stuffed a chunk into his mouth.

“Elliott says a lot of people would rather go on government assistance than hold a job. He read in The Wall Street Journal it’s gotten tough to hire restaurant workers, ‘cause they make more by sitting home and getting government checks.” Elliott had frequently complained that blue collar workers were lazy, eager to stretch out a hand for a check and sit on their behinds all day, while government programs enabled their sloth. He’d insisted he’d held jobs every summer he was in school - washing dishes or mowing lawns, no matter whether it paid peanuts. Had boasted he didn’t slack until the day he retired.

Al swallowed the last chunk of bread and stared at her. His face had gone wary, as though he’d detected something dangerous in her.

“Of course, that’s only what he thinks,” she spoke into the lengthening silence.

Al rose, scraping Elliott’s chair back on its legs. “My daughter waits tables at an Italian chain. Half the customers don’t tip, or they tip real lousy. If she’s lucky, she might make thirty dollars a day on top of minimum wage. She’s on her feet for hours, moving nonstop. Works her ass off.”

At the word “ass,” Ingrid reflexively drew back.

“It’s thankless work.”  He enunciated each word, slowly and loudly, as though Ingrid were a young child. A glob of spit flew from his lips and landed on her arm.

She dabbed it with her napkin, then looked up cautiously.  Al was staring into the family room at the fireplace. Not knowing what else to do, Ingrid scooped up his empty plate, hobbled to the sink. She hadn’t finished her soup, but her appetite had vanished, and she didn’t think she could eat another bite.

When Ingrid turned to retrieve her bowl, Al’s jaw was steely. His gaze swept coldly down her body, and she shivered as if he’d seen her naked - potbelly; wrinkled, sagging breasts; fat jiggling under pale arms; gray wiry hair between flaccid thighs. 

“Course,” he said, “That’s not something all folks would know.”  His eyes slid away and traveled slowly from the kitchen to the family room, settling with a mocking smile on the oil painting above the mantelpiece. Instantly Ingrid saw herself under his penetrating stare and knew what he meant: She wouldn’t know, because she had it easy.

Admittedly, this house wasn’t the fruit of her own labors; it had been custom built with Elliott’s investments and earnings. In turn, her late husband had gotten a leg up from his father; those part-time jobs he’d worked as a kid were for pocket change. At IBM, Elliott had been well compensated - hadn’t lifted more than a few fingers at his laptop to order his staff to execute his plans. Now the house was a comforting reminder of their shared life and triumphant ascent to retirement. Ingrid couldn’t bear the thought of moving to a cramped room in one of those smelly senior assisted living homes, even the new one Jessica had mentioned, couldn’t stomach the hassle of sorting through her things and deciding what to toss, what to keep.

As Al stooped to pick up the sander block, Ingrid hugged her chest. True, she’d been unreasonably afraid of him. Elliott, too, would have suspected this man would take advantage of her ignorance and con her. And yet Al had helped her when she’d fallen ill moments earlier.  

She limped to the fridge, shoved the bowl into the stainless steel cavern. Not wanting to face him yet, she pretended to arrange other containers, taking her time. When Ingrid finally swung around, Al was hovering on the third rung of the ladder, his profile furrowed in concentration. She searched for something to say, a small olive branch to show she appreciated his help and wasn’t as oblivious to his plight or his daughter’s as he must think.

Ingrid started to call his name, but Al was sanding with determination and didn’t look up. A breath of air whooshed from her body. She had the sudden, strange thought that she had missed out on something important, like a one-time invitation to a family reunion she had turned down. Ingrid’s pulse thundered in her chest. She waited until it slowed, then shuffled down the hall toward her bedroom.

Meditative Walking

The woods behind our house lead to a creek that winds past the backyards in an adjacent neighborhood. It’s peaceful, usually empty in the early afternoon, and I enjoy the solitude of walking among the thirty-feet tall loblolly pines and oaks.

In fact, I’ve discovered that walking can be a type of meditation, if you allow yourself to slow down, notice the birds, squirrels, and trees, and smaller creatures, and immerse yourself in the present. Once I was surprised by a majestic hawk that swooped down to the creek, seized a squirrel that was scrambling along the bank, and flew to another part of the woods. Another time I thought about the trees and their deep network of roots (the “wood wide web”, per The Hidden Life of Trees) for exchanging nutrients and water. The wood wide web is a true social network in the sense that healthier trees provide more nourishment to the sicker trees, and they all benefit by achieving a healthy balance in their ecosystem.

Often, after I’ve edited one of my two WIPs, I find that walking also gives me a fresh sense of perspective and burst of energy, so when I return to my writing, I have minor solutions to hiccups, or notes about a character or setting.

I hope you can get away and enjoy a little Nature in your backyard, too.

Dipping My Toes in Social Media

Though I worked in high tech for years, I’m not a technophile. To be fair, the products and technology I managed were designed for businesses, not end users, and included large-scale systems, servers, cloud, and telecommunications software.

So one of my goals for 2022 is to gain more of a social media presence by dipping my toes in Instagram, and expanding my website to include a bona fide monthly newsletter. If you’re interested, please sign up below!

While I work on two novels that are nearing the publication stage (one historical, one contemporary), I’d love to help promote other writers’ work - both via social media (Instagram, twitter, Facebook), and through this blog.

Writers, if you’re interested in guest-blogging or receiving a review of your ARC or published novel on my website, please reach out!

Musings on the Historical Fiction Revision Process

Though my debut historical novel, WALTZ IN SWING TIME, took over a decade to write and publish, I learned a lot along the way - especially about the revision process. When I finished the first draft of the novel at the end of 2016, I spent a couple of months “reviewing” it before shopping it to agents in early 2017. Little did I know, the bulk of my work had yet to begin. After receiving comments back from agents who had read the full manuscript, I realized I had several significant changes to make before the novel was publication-ready.

First, the manuscript needed more immediate action - and higher stakes. This meant eliminating or drastically shortening chapters in which action happened primarily to external characters, separate from the heroine’s immediate family. It also meant tightening the plot so that each chapter led to another inevitable conflict, stake, or decision. But that was just the beginning.

Two and a half years after I finished my first draft, even after I signed with a small publisher, got dropped, and signed with my eventual indie publisher (Black Rose Writing), I continued making changes. This included several rounds of punctuation, quotations, vocabulary choices, typo corrections. But more importantly, it included inserting an even more dramatic stake for the protagonist, Irene Larsen: the choice between leaving her family and farm for good or pursuing a musical career and marriage far away from them. I also changed the ending chapter so it was more “show” than “tell,” via a dialogue between the main character as an old woman and her granddaughter.

After reviewing/revising the manuscript half a dozen or more times, I was finally able to ensure that all the main actions and decisions fit within the novel’s themes. One helpful way I discovered to accomplish this was by condensing the plot to a short “pitch” for prospective agents and publishers. The first part sets up the conflict; the second part hints at the decision or action at stake; and the third part summarizes the novel’s themes, and why readers should care. Any conflicts and stakes described in the pitch must be highlighted in the novel itself to make it a compelling read.

The second time around, as I’ve revised my second historical novel-in-process (set in San Francisco and Yosemite during 1934), I’ve adopted many of these techniques with improved results. I began writing the pitch while I was still working on the first draft of the novel, to ensure the stakes were raised and the protagonist had a critical decision/ turning point. The first draft took only two years to complete (as opposed to ten), and over the past six months, I’ve completed seven or eight revised drafts. Without fail, each time I re-read the novel, I see other areas that can be removed or tightened.

For example, with historical fiction, authors may be tempted to showcase their research by including most of their findings in the book. I made this mistake with the first draft of my second novel, and quickly realized I had to condense or expurgate this information. The trick is finding the balance between including sufficient detail to give readers a solid picture of the time period and place without overwhelming them with too many useless facts. Dialogue that includes that information, in my opinion, should be removed and summarized, because dialogue is best used to inform readers about characters’ emotional conflicts, not to convey facts about plants, birds, historical decisions, labor strikes, etc.

While I believe it’s important for writers to find three to four beta readers to review a manuscript before submitting/pitching it to agents and publishers, I also believe that ultimately, it is the writer’s first and foremost responsibility to be her own toughest critic and editor. By and large, it’s difficult for readers to articulate what does and doesn’t work in a manuscript; and by the time it gets to an agent, who often are more adept at articulating weaknesses, it’s too late. Therefore, it’s up to the writer to pore over her own draft multiple times, looking for different things each time: plot holes, character contradictions, passages with too many useless facts, typos/grammar errors, overly verbose descriptions, stakes in each chapter, a critical decision or turning point for the protagonist, a theme that “hangs together,” and can be summarized/pitched to an agent.

Some writers claim they edit as they go, but I argue this is not enough, and can never truly succeed. You must re-read the manuscript in its entirety - probably multiple times - to make sure you’ve tightened the plot and raised the stakes to fit the novel’s theme. And as they say, don’t be afraid to “kill your darlings.” If you love a particular phrase or description, but it doesn’t contribute to the overall plot or theme, remove it and set it aside for another novel. The joy in doing this, I’ve discovered, is that with every revised draft, as I reduce the word count in my novel, I’m excited the novel is that much better. My ultimate goal is to wait until I’ve achieved the best possible revised draft before pitching to agents and publishers, which should improve the manuscript’s chances of acceptance.

In summary, completing the first draft of a manuscript is an important milestone to celebrate, but it is just the beginning. The revision process is where the bulk of tightening the plot, sharpening the stakes, and drawing out the theme(s) takes place. In turn, writing a compelling pitch to accompany the plot will help entice agents and publishers, and ultimately readers - something every writer wants.

Interview with Logan Herald Journal and Inclusion in Kirkus Reviews Magazine!

All,

I am thrilled with a recent wave of positive press that WALTZ IN SWING TIME has recently received:

• The Kirkus Review of my novel, WALTZ in SWING TIME, is featured in the May 1st edition of The Kirkus Review Magazine

• The Logan Herald Journal (based in Cache County, Utah) included an interview with me in the April 29th edition of their paper, titled: “Recent Novel Set in 1930s Cache Valley Finds Unintended New Relevance During Pandemic”

  IndieView with Jill Caugherty, Author of Waltz in Swing Time, April 26, 2020 edition of The Indie View

• Review in Read Local Books
  

Thanks to my new readers for your support!

WALTZ IN SWING TIME LAUNCH DAY!

Dear Readers,

I’m thrilled that today, April 23rd, marks the debut of my historical novel, WALTZ IN SWING TIME! I’m especially pleased because it’s the first book I’ve written to be published! I began this journey well over a decade ago, in late 2006, when I started writing the first draft. Since then, the manuscript has undergone countless revisions and rewrites. Along the way, I’ve sharpened my skills and gained a deeper understanding about the finer details of the revision process and how to craft a compelling narrative. At the same time, I’ve continued to read and find inspiration from the beautiful prose of my favorite authors (Chang-Rae Lee, Khaled Hosseini, Margaret Atwood, Amy Tan, T.C. Boyle, Wallace Stegner, John Steinbeck, to name a few).

I also learned a little about the publishing and marketing process, and feel truly fortunate, after a topsy-turvy experience, to have finally landed with a reputable, solid publisher, Black Rose Writing, who granted me creative latitude with the title (which has changed a few times since the inception of this process), edits, and the idea behind the cover. In fact, BRW’s creative design team used a couple of ideas and did a marvelous job with the cover, and I’m very satisfied.

To celebrate this long journey, I’m holding a virtual launch party this evening (4/23/20) at 8pm ET. If you are interested, please contact me directly for details.

In the meantime, I hope you will read the book, which is now available in e-book and print copies on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Google Books, and Black Rose Writing.

And please, if you are able, leave an honest review - on Amazon, goodreads - anywhere you are able.

Thanks for your support!

Finding the Inspiration to Write Part-Time

Many of us find the recent news scary and depressing: rising cases of coronavirus; hospitals and healthcare workers struggling for sufficient masks, test kits, gloves, beds and medicine; a crashing economy; lost jobs. For the past few weeks, as these events have consumed the media spotlight, they’ve created fear and anxiety. As a result, it’s often difficult to pick up the proverbial pen, regardless of whether you write for a living or do it part-time. I’m no exception.

As my full-time job, I’m a product manager in the high tech industry, where I’ve held positions from software development to marketing for nearly thirty years. Although I enjoy the analytical aspects of my work, I’ve always longed to be a writer, in much the same way that Irene, the protagonist of Waltz in Swing Time, always longed to become a musician.

When I was six, my parents asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. As soon as I replied “an author,” they argued it wouldn’t pay the bills. Of course, there was some truth in what they said. Nonetheless, I refused to give up my dream, and while growing up, I wrote poems, plays, novellas, and stories.  As an adult, I view my work as an important contribution to our family’s finances, and writing as a creative outlet.  Eventually, I still hope to write full-time, because it’s what I love to do. Writing energizes me.

In the meantime, like most part-time authors, I write when I can, which more often than not is a weekend morning or the occasional evening. Maybe having less time to write and viewing it as a treat, not a task, also helps part-timers with the creative process - more so than if writing were a full time gig. In my case, it’s a welcome break from my day job, which generally uses a different set of skills and requires extensive collaboration.

When I sit down at my laptop and open my work-in-process, I usually re-read a few paragraphs, then slip into the characters' lives. Through them, I can vicariously experience walking down a San Francisco street, hiking in Yosemite, or performing onstage in a musical. In some ways, in fact, writing isn’t so different from character acting, except the writer can guide the characters and the plot (though some may argue that the characters themselves spring to life and in fact influence the plot), all while exploring deeper truths. So in much the same way that people enjoy reading books and watching TV shows or movies for a little escape, I write to experiment with different personalities, families, settings, even historical times.

Part-time writers also have the benefit of choosing to leverage a few of the “technical” skills from our day jobs in our writing approaches. For example, I tend to look at the big picture when plotting novels. I don’t start writing until I have a logical, over-arching view of the beginning, middle, and end of the story. Once I’ve created a rough outline of the plot, and have sparked an idea for the protagonist and her conflict, the theme flows naturally. I realize this is a different approach from many writers who play with the idea of a character first, then later evolve that character’s actions into a novel.

The editing process also requires more “technical” skills, including paying attention to detail. Sure, it may not be as fun as the creative part, but it’s equally important to ensure that a character’s actions and dialogue make sense in the context of the greater plot, setting, and time frame. For part-time authors without editors, editing is a necessary evil to hone our descriptions and choice of words, and avoid grammatical and spelling mistakes and other typos.

Finally, the sales and marketing aspects of writing - pitching the finished work to an agent or publisher and promoting it to bookstores and end customers - require a unique set of skills. Although I’ve held B2B marketing positions before, I’ve never before marketed to consumers, so this is my least favorite aspect of the writing process. Though writing blogs and creating trailers can be fun, I’m not so fond, to put it mildly, of promoting on social media or figuring out how to gain the most reviews - e.g. through a Goodreads give-away.

On the whole, writing part-time can provide balance between full-time “technical” work and free-form creativity. Admittedly, it’s much more difficult to write while anxious or sad. As a result, I haven’t sat down to write creatively as often as usual. I’m sure I’m not alone.

Now, more than ever, writers need to remain persistent in putting pen to paper without growing discouraged. We need this creative outlet in order to stay centered while coping with uncertainty, hardship, and stress. In fact, attempting to center ourselves before writing may help, too. This might mean trying a few minutes of meditation (following the breath while counting backward, for instance), or performing yoga routines via a guided video. It may also include taking a walk outdoors, exercising, chatting with a family member or friend, listening to music, taking a bath, or moving to a different part of the house and changing the lighting.

Afterwards, whether you’re a reader or writer, slip into that other world - one totally different from your current circumstances, and unleash your imagination for a while, absorb yourself in the characters and their adventures.  Creative writing, as well as reading and watching movies, can help soothe us and heal our spirits during these difficult times.

Why Write about the Great Depression?

People sometimes ask why I chose the Great Depression as one of the central time periods of my novel, Waltz in Swing Time. After all, they reason, it’s a dreary chapter in history. One bookseller remarked, “we don’t want to relive it.”

Perhaps that’s why a surprisingly large number of twentieth century historical novels take place instead during World War II. Wonderful books such as The Nightingale, Motherland, and All the Light We Cannot See feature heroic protagonists — soldiers, spies, medical personnel, ordinary citizens — who defy or resist totalitarian governments, despite great personal danger.

In the thirties, United States citizens didn’t struggle against an oppressive regime, but many suffered severe hardships after losing their jobs and income. The country faced an economic divide between the wealthy bankers and Wall Street investors whose reckless speculations may have precipitated the crash of 1929, and the rural communities who struggled to keep their farms as their crop income declined and they couldn’t make mortgage payments.

This may sound all too familiar. In fact, not only did I write about the Depression because of its odd under-representation in historical fiction, I chose it because I see striking parallels between the economic inequality of the thirties and our current economic climate. Today, we see huge disparities in wealth between the upper one percent (not surprisingly, many of whom are Wall Street investors and bankers) and the remaining ninety-nine percent of American citizens. This disparity continues to widen. The wide stock market fluctuations on news of a global pandemic or trade wars also demonstrate how quickly fortunes can rise and fall.

In Waltz in Swing Time, Irene Larsen and her family struggle to make ends meet on their farm in Utah. They’re forced to sell prized possessions and take in boarders, and they watch neighbors lose their farms to bank foreclosures. Unfortunately, this was an all too common reality in the thirties, where in the U.S., the unemployment rate rose as high as twenty-five percent. In urban areas, some homeless Americans lived in shantytowns known as “Hoovervilles,” and reluctantly turned to soup lines for meals. After FDR took office as the nation’s thirty-second President in March 1933, his New Deal programs gradually began turning the tide; and the Depression officially ended with the start of World War II.

In their own way, the people who made it through the Depression were heroic. Sure, they didn’t rescue injured airmen from burning planes or smuggle Jews to safety through the Pyrenees, but they made tough choices and sacrifices for their families and communities. Many of them came together to help each other through difficult times - buying back farm possessions at penny auctions, for example, or raising community gardens to feed neighbors. Musicians, artists, writers, and actors also united to entertain people and distract them from their troubles. The WPA commissioned beautiful murals and paintings by artists around the country, and people found a little reprieve by watching movies and listening to radio programs. In Waltz in Swing Time, Irene entertains Depression-weary tourists at Zion National Park by singing on a variety show.

Maybe, too, surviving hardship helped the people of the thirties gain strength, self-reliance, and a new perspective on what truly matters. That said, I think it’s useful to reflect on this overlooked period of history and draw comparisons with modern times. In the face of a threat to our global economy and livelihoods, perhaps we can put aside the trifles that don’t matter, make a few difficult sacrifices, and come through it together, stronger.

A Philosophical (Buddhist) Approach to Writing

Like most writers, I love the writing process itself - breathing life into a world of characters, following them vicariously as they explore, encounter conflicts, fall in love, pursue their dreams.

Also like most writers, I’m not as fond of the post-writing process: marketing and selling the finished product. Perhaps I shouldn’t have a negative attitude toward this part of the process, especially since I’ve held marketing positions in my long career in high tech. Granted, marketing to businesses is vastly different from marketing to consumers, as I’ve quickly discovered.

Writing itself is by definition an individual, go-it-yourself process. The marketing and sales part of the process doesn’t have to be, though it often is. When writers do go it alone, they find this process even more challenging when they hear unhelpful comments from strangers like, “Don’t give up your day job.”

That said, I’ve tried to adopt a philosophical, almost Buddhist approach to writing: Give it your best effort, and then accept what happens. In other words, don’t expend undue effort in struggling to change processes or institutions. For example, if bookstores choose not to carry your work due to reasons beyond your control - distributor discounts or refund policies - don’t sweat it. Move on. Look for bookstores that will be more receptive or are willing to deal directly with your publisher.

As a Western writer living in the South, in an area saturated with other writers, I also have to accept that many local bookstores may not be as interested in my work as they would if I wrote about the South. Though the local community in my area is fairly diverse, it stands to reason that many bookstores in the South would still prefer books about the South. That’s okay. Because my full-time job often takes me to Boulder, Colorado, a gorgeous mountain town, I’ve actually found more positive leads in that city.

In the end, don’t kick yourself if your plans don’t go as you expected. It pays to be flexible: Adjust your expectations and your strategy, and stay optimistic. Persistence and a positive attitude tend to pay off; vendors are more likely to be influenced by your optimism, too. Just as practitioners of Buddhism counsel not to yearn for things unduly and to accept that everything is constantly in flux, adopt this own approach with your writing. You may suffer a setback one day, but keep your chin up, because the next day might bring a completely different outcome. Don’t fight attrition. Do your best in writing and then marketing your book, and then accept that you have done as much as you can do.

If your book receives accolades and positive reviews, or even a short bestselling status, you can be pleasantly surprised. If not, chalk it up to experience, events beyond your control, and set your sights on the next book.

And to all my fellow authors, I understand what you’re going through, and I’m rooting for you!