On Comparisons

This year I am challenging myself to make a behavioral change. It won’t be easy, because I have sixty-five years of experience I’ll need to repress and I live in a society that takes a different approach from what I want for myself. I should say, what I think I want for myself.

I wish to give up making comparisons between myself and others.

I have spent my life doing just that or, just as troublesome, reacting to the comparisons others made about me.

As I think about my eighteen plus years of formal education, I only recall two courses (Psychology 101 and 102, Lafayette College 1968-1969) where the only thing that mattered to receive an “A” was whether I mastered the material and taught my rat all the tricks on the “to do” list. In that class if I passed all my tests and completed all my assignments, I earned an A. I could do the work when I wanted, as long as I had it completed before the end of the semester. Whether or not I mastered the material had no effect on anyone else’s grade. Nor did the speed or extent of their mastering the material affect how I was graded.

In every other class, I was compared with others. Some classes specifically incorporated a grade curve, making sure only those scoring the best (regardless of how good or bad that best was) would receive high marks.

Through the years, I inculcated that skill into my own thinking and eventually perverted it to this: how could I enjoy success when others had more?

I need to face the fact that I am not the best at any particular thing. Sure I may be at the 99.9 percentile for some things, but there is still that extra 0.1% who exceed my effort or ability. With lots of things, I am average, just average. I am below average in countless other things.

What is the big deal, you might be asking yourself about now? Let me give a recent example.

Last year I decided I wanted to run a half-marathon. Time was not part of the goal, although implicitly “run” meant moving at a pace faster than walking. And as part of reaching that goal, I needed to train without going overboard and hurting myself, thereby preventing myself from running the race.

I succeeded. I earned my completion medal (pretty isn’t it?). Then a half hour or so after I crossed the finish line (and drank a celebratory beer), I noticed people checking with a young woman who had a computer. I discovered people were finding out what place they finished.

That changed everything.

With the magic of available technology, my goal was no longer sufficient. I wanted to know how I compared with the other finishers. She provided me my various placements: where I placed overall, where I placed counting only men, where I placed with men between ages sixty-five and seventy. I earned a medal for the last category (pretty isn’t it?) because I was second. My immediate reaction was, were there only two of us?

No, there were more, not very many, but more. Plus, (because you know, I had to check when all the results were available online) I beat out all but one of the guys 60-64! I started calculating: how many seconds per mile would I need to carve off in order to take first?

You see where I am going with this, right? For thirty glorious minutes, I had been very pleased because I trained to complete the 13.1 miles without killing myself, and I had accomplished that goal. As soon as I knew I could compare myself to others, my pleasure diminished.

My initial desire had nothing to do with others; it had only to do with me doing something I wanted to do. Then why did I compare myself to others, who had nothing to do with whether I had met my objective? Why indeed? I can make excuses. I can say I live in the kind of society that sets up these false comparisons, a society that makes finer and finer comparisons so we can all become winners. (And gives participations awards, because everyone who finishes is a winner!)

Fact: the winner of the New York City marathon finished his 26.2 miles faster than I finished my 13.1 miles. Yet there I was, calculating how much faster I would need to be to take all comers in my age bracket.

Would that my pathology was limited to half-marathon races. As an author, how much mental energy have I wasted wondering such things as how many books I would need to sell in the next hour to drive my ranking in Kindle Store/Kindle e-books/Mystery, Thriller & Suspense/Thrillers/Financial from 34 to 33?

It’s wasted effort; it’s wasted psychic energy; it takes away from my enjoyment, just because 33 other books in that narrow backwater of tranches ending in Financial are selling better than mine when it was selling its best.

Oh, but I’m a Kindle bestseller. I was on the list, right? Being a Kindle bestseller is the new participation award for authors.

So here’s my challenge from me to me: Do what I do as well as I can. That’s it.

No one else can give me a meaningful reward for doing that; only I can reward myself by feeling good about my effort. What comes of that effort depends on everyone else, and that I cannot control. And if I can’t control it, there is no reason to tie my happiness and feeling of well-being to it.

Does that mean if I suddenly became a mega-selling novelist it has no meaning? No, it means I got lucky. I’d like that; I’d like that a lot, but I can’t affect luck other than to do the best I can in the first place.

Am I embracing this everyone gets a prize for showing up? No bleeping way. If I don’t bring my best and work to make it better, I should and will feel disappointed in myself. But if I do the best I can—now that is something to celebrate.

I’m looking forward to 2016, and I am going to work hard to short-circuit my comparison meter and enjoy fully the fruits of my labor.

How about you?

~ Jim

Lessons Learned from Pitch Madness Slush

I’m a firm believer that contests are very, very good for writers.

And I’m not just saying that because I snagged my agent thanks to one. (Though, that does help!)

You see, as a querying writer, you know you have competition. Lots and lots of it. And that competition is faceless, nameless and possessing of talent and ideas of a completely unknown quantity.

Which is annoying.

Because, unless an agent gives specific examples of your competition over Twitter or on his/her blog, or you get a chance to read a friend’s query and first 10 pages, it’s really, really hard to gauge what’s hitting an agent’s inbox at the very same time your query makes its appearance.

Now, first, let me be clear: Getting an agent is about your writing. It’s not about whose query is shiniest or who you met at such-and-such conference. Those things help, but ultimately, it’s about the writing.

That said, agents get hundreds of query letters each week. And chances are, they’ll read a good fifty in one giant gulp of yeses (“Please send more.”) and nos (“Not right for me, thanks.”).

So, it helps to stand out in a crowd.

And contests help you do this in a couple of ways:

1. Most have an exclusive window where, if you advance, a number of agents have committed to giving their time to looking at contest entries and making requests.

2. Even agents who weren’t originally committed might hop on and join in on a request-a-thon (my agent was one of those).

But there’s an even larger reason these contests can help you stand out, no matter if you make the agent round: You get a chance to see what everyone is else doing.

And learn from it.

I learned quite a bit from the contest I competed in — not only about what genres were big and better ways to word a pitch, but I ended up with some great critique partners, and my marvelous agent (something I’ll talk about in my next post Sept. 15).

And, you know what? Even though I have an agent, I’m still learning from contests.

This week, I got to work as a slush reader for one of Brenda Drake’s fabulous Twitter/blogcontests: Pitch Madness. I’ve done this once before for Brenda, but I didn’t get to read as much slush as I wanted because I happened to be stuck at a three-day stage trail race in backwoods Arkansas with no Internet. Horrible scheduling on my part.

But this time, I got to read the majority of the 470-something entries in Pitch Madness. Yes, nearly 500 entries, all of which consisted of a 35-word pitch and the first 250 words (about one page) of the actual text.

Now, I know we writers would like to believe this isn’t enough on which to judge a manuscript — especially when you write 100,000-word behemoths like me. But here’s the thing: There’s no guarantee that an agent will read any more than that. Just because you sent a query, synopsis and three chapters does not mean that will get read. In fact, he or she might take one look at your opening paragraph or outrageous word length and send a form rejection.

I know I sound like a jerk when I say this, but in some cases it’s true. And it stinks.

And here’s what you can do about it: Make yourself stick out.

As I mentioned, I read nearly 500 pitches and excerpts over the past few days. And probably 99 percent of them were really good in one way or another.

This is your competition.

So, I want to share a bit about what I learned from reading entry after entry. Now, none of these “rules” really account for subjectivity, which is something impossible to control, but I want you to take a look at your query and sample pages and make sure you’ve taken care of every one of them. Because the competition is fierce and I truly don’t want you to be left behind.

1. Show, don’t tell. This is the first cardinal rule of writing. We’ve all heard it a hundred times. Yet, I saw quite a bit of telling in both the pitch and the actual copy. Yes, it’s beneficial to have both showing and telling in your writing. A mix is great. But in a story’s opening, telling can come off as heavy-handed and un-earned. And in a pitch or a query, you do yourself a disservice by telling. A query or pitch should give your reader a hint your writing’s flavor and if you’re too direct, you kill any benefit.

2. If you start with dialogue, it better be fantastic. Dialogue can be a fine way to begin a manuscript — it puts a reader right in the middle of a scene, giving them a chance to “hear” your characters. But it also can be very tricky in that if it’s basic or too out there, it’s not going to mean a lick to your reader. And they’re going to stop reading. Go back and make sure your dialogue crackles, especially if you’re opening with a conversation.

3. Names, names, names. I absolutely love unusual names for main characters. This sets them apart, gives them personality and, if done well, is a perfect part of them. That said, if you’re going to use an unusual name, make sure a reader can pronounce it in his or her head without much help. If someone stumbles on your main character’s name in the very first instance, that’s a stumble you may not recover from depending on how well the reader/agent likes your premise and writing. Believe me: You can’t afford this. Ask your friends and family to read the name aloud to you to see if they get it right. Seriously. On the flip side, if you use a “basic” name, you might want to make sure it hasn’t been overdone or check other query contests and writer groups to see how many times it’s been used by others. I saw several Jakes, Devs (yes, Dev), Jane/Jaynes and Hopes.

4. Sentence structure and paragraph starters. In the heat of writing and editing, you might be looking for just the right word or phrase or bit of dialogue. But when you’ve got the copy to where you need it to be, take one final pass and look at how your paragraphs appear on the page. If you find more than two paragraphs in a row that start with the same word (usually I, He, She, They, etc.), change it up. I can’t tell you how many little 250-word excerpts I read that over-used the same sentence structure several times in a row. Sometimes, this can be done purposefully to create a certain rhythm. But most of the time? It’s just a go-to way of describing the action that needs to be changed up. The same goes for sentence length. Vary it. Once you start looking, page-by-page, at your manuscript, these things will appear if you’re overdoing them. I swear.

5. A 35-word pitch isn’t a query, but it’s dang close. When you tell someone you’re a writer, they probably ask about what you’re writing. How do you describe it without regurgitating your query? Even if you never use it, you need to perfect how to tell someone what you’re writing in as short of a space as possible. Not only will this help them understand what your book is about, but it’ll help you learn what your book is about. Seriously. Before I start writing any book, I write myself a short pitch and basically the meat of a query. I learned this trick from one of my writer buds and I think it’s genius. It really helped me zero in and go from this nebulous idea to something that has great shape, detail and direction.

I hope you’ve learned a bit from what I saw in those nearly 500 entries. I know some of it sounds like stuff we all know, and we probably do, but knowing it and implementing it is something different altogether.

And if you’re a Pitch Madness person reading this and freaking out because you have an unpronounceable character name, a page full of dialogue and a boatload of “telling” shoe-horned into sentences that exclusively start with I?

Don’t worry.

Seriously. Because, in the end, it all comes down to the writing. You can break every rule in the book and still be successful.

Just make sure you stick out.

What do you learn from reading the work of others?