Book Pitching: Are You Ready?

Heads up:  if you're not a writer, you're not going to care about this blog. Move along.

But if you are a writer, you're probably at least thinking about attending a writing conference sometime this year. Or, you should. But before you do, prepare yourself. I've written a quick-tip reference for those of you trying to figure out what in the hell you should be doing when you sign up for one of those 15 minute appointments with an editor or agent on day two of these conferences. Here's the link:

http://www.chipmacgregor.com/blog/marketing-and-platforms/pitching-are-you-prepared/

Merry Christmas and you're welcome.

Wine, Books, and My Ego

This week, despite having the plague, I had a night which falls within the top five experiences of my life, right up there with Auggie nestling up to me for the first time, and that day my grandpa carried me everywhere I wanted to go (clearly, I was a child).

On Tuesday, a book group three towns over invited me to speak to them about my first novel, Smart Mouth. I went because of the free wine. In hindsight, I'm tellin' ya', every novelists should do this at least once. There is no better ego stroke.

Honestly, though, there's more to it than ego. My writing soul was fed. I knew two of the participants, but the rest were friendly and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I felt like an authority figure - like I a real writer. They asked insightful questions, deep questions, as if they got something out of my words. My words. Wow! People I didn't know actually liked my book! They were treating it how I treat other people's books. They talked about characters as if they were real people, treated their issues like real issues. I mean, I feel that way, but how could I know for sure others feel the same? I can only assume my friends lie to me to assuage my ego, which is fine by me, so the validation rolled over me in a wave. I'm still soaking in it. One woman said she felt like I followed her around and wrote about her life. (For the record, I didn't.) Another woman said she searched the internet for my radio interview and then listened to the whole thing. They asked tons of questions about my current novel; some of them had read excerpts on my blog. They wanted to know about a Smart Mouth sequel!

I enjoyed living my book from their perspective.  I'm honored these women invited me into their home and shared their impressions and questions about my work. And their wine. I can't thank them enough. I write more secure in an audience now, because of them.

And next week, I've been asked to present at the Oregon Coast Literary Award night in Cannon Beach. How did I get here?! Thank you, Universe, for shining this light on me.  I won't take it for granted, I promise. 

Smart Mouth novel: the radio interview

Day four of the swine-strep-ear infection fiesta located in the confines of one Holly Lorincz.

Man, I feel like death. But instead of lying in bed eating saltine crackers and watching Perry Mason on KPTV, I got up, showered, passed out, wiped the slobber off my chin, drove to the local radio station and did an interview. The following link involves the gracious Shaena Peterson of KTIL trying to pry an energetic response out of my monosyllabic brain mush.

https://www.dropbox.com/s/p3rl6x2468sv8t7/tt%20-%20Holly%27s%20Novel%2004292013.mp3

What I did today

http://www.chipmacgregor.com/blog/career/before-you-post-your-book-online/

Snake pit vs. Drowning

I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying. Not worrying in a normal, oh-it-might-rain-I-should-bring-an-umbrella kind of way, either. No, every decision or action I make revolves around the following: will I need to deal with a tsunami, snakes, or driving off the road into water today? There's a reason these themes work themselves into my books.

For example, I consider bringing that umbrella to work.  Hmmm, if, while driving to the office, Hwy 101 slides out from under me and I end up in the Nehalem River, will the umbrella hamper my escape? Maybe I can use that umbrella to break out a window. Yes, umbrella it is. (If you've seen our county highways, you'll know this isn't as farfetched as it sounds. Right?)

Should I wear boots? I really like my red leather boots. But if there is a tsunami, can I run up the hills of Manzanita in them? I test it out. Yep, I can out-sprint the Pacific in these babies. If Tia What's Her Face had been wearing these boots in that movie Deep Impact she would have survived. Okay, boots it is. (My office is in the tsunami zone, so this isn't too crazy. Right?)

Should I sit in the sun in my back yard? The only sunny spot is under the bamboo. Will baby snakes fall into my lap, prompting me to go into convulsions of terror, unable to move, while those little bastards slither over me? I look up, down, all around. Yep, there's a snake coiled on a warm rock by the waterfall. Inside the house it is. (One hot summer day I was sitting at the table in our back courtyard. I heard a rustling in the trees above me. Looking up, I discovered a snake dangling from the branch directly above me. My husband had a difficult time peeling my screeching, incoherent, grey fleshed self off the ceiling of the bedroom, where I was hiding.)

I am fully aware I need to relax, that I can't live my life always worrying about such things. That's what my husband tells me anyway. I say, @$$#$%$  @$#@#$@#$@. Can you imagine driving along  and a tsunami sweeps you off the road, into the bay, and a bunch of snakes climb in the window, trying to escape the rushing debris? I can. I'm prepared.

I'm a published author!!

MY BIG FAT BOOK RELEASE!!!!!!!

I've been trying to find myself for years . . . and I did it! I found myself!

Just go to Amazon.com, type in "Holly Lorincz" and there I am!

If so, here's the Kindle version of my first novel, SMART MOUTH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C2CIIGM

Or if you're a Nook/Sony/Kobo/Apple IPad kinda' reader, check out

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/299945

Smart Mouth is all about a twenty-something trying to figure out how to be an adult while at the same time saddled with a rag-tag speech team who needs a strong leader. No, the book is not about me. But, yes, I did use my own experiences as a creative tool. No, the book is not about you. Legally, I have to tell you that. Ha ha, no really, all the characters are fictitious, despite what you might think . . . ENJOY!

P.S. The Nook version may not be available from the distributor until early next week. 

Step 3 -- beat on each other with lightsabers at 6:45

Auggie's first sleepover is this Saturday. Seven seven-year-old farting machines. Why start small? Here's what the invitation looks like:

TIME: 6 PM - 9 AM, SATURDAY

PLACE: AUGGIE'S HOUSE 

PHONE: HOLLY 503 xxx / ANDRE 503 xxx

DRESS: SWEATS or STAR WARS COSTUME

BRING: SLEEPING BAG, PILLOW, SWIM TRUNKS, PJ'S, TOOTH BRUSH, A SUBMISSIVE ATTITUDE, and A HELMET (seriously); PRESENTS ARE OPTIONAL AND SHOULD BE CHEAP!!

THE PLAN :
Corndogs, carrots and cupcakes at 6 pm
Open presents at 630
Beat on each other with lightsabers at 645
Splash all the water out of the hottub at 715
Silently watch Star Wars movie at 740
Politely listen to Walter the Farting Dog at 900
Sleep solidly, without moving, from 915 -830
Pancakes at 830 am
Parents pick up kids at 9
Espresso and Captain Crunch served to remaining kids at 915

P.S.
I need all of your phone numbers so that I can call you when your child bleeds on my carpet or whacks someone purposefully in the face or tries to crawl in bed with me. Seriously. If you don't answer, I will call the fire department and tell them there is a fire at your house. That should wake you up.

If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?

I'm deeply, madly, freakishly in love with my current novel. I want to talk about it all the time. I think about it while I take a shower or lay in bed. My son, peeved at my preoccupation, asked me, "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?" I just might.

Here's the prologue.

THE SAME RIVER, TWICE

CHAPTER 1              FREEDOM

            She sipped and sipped and sipped, lips puckered, a girl-child sucking frantically at the air. 

            Her lungs were greedy, insatiable. It wasn’t because of the water licking her chin, hungry. It wasn’t because of the fingers of terror prying at her twelve year old brain. No. Sloan’s inability to breathe was due to the rapidly diminishing oxygen in their Honda Accord, currently residing at the bottom of the Willamette River.

            Her father sat in the front seat, unmoving, staring at her over the waves in the rearview mirror. His bland stare, void of the usual anxiety, chilled her as the river filled the interior, a slight flitting of his eyelashes the only sign of life. Sloan's mute appeal went unanswered. She struggled against the seatbelt, her numbed fingers bludgeoning the plastic button until, finally, the strap released its hold.

            “Dad! Dad!” she croaked, head tilted back into the dwindling free space. The panic burst, bloomed. Beating on her window, the force of her strikes slowed to cartoon speed in the thick water. The door would not budge. The power window sat tight, as tight as her father, a statue dedicated to the perfect driving posture, hands at ten and two, spine straight, face forward, immune to distractions.

            Sloan swiped at the oil dripping into her eyes, uncertain if the dark runnels were real or if her brain was signaling an imminent shut down. It didn’t matter. The dwindling space between the river and the plaid ceiling surged to less than an inch. Too tired to crank her nose back any further, she could only see the top of her father’s head now, his black hair floating like a toupee on the gentle swells; he’d already given up.

            She knew why. It was the water. It was so calming, so comforting, caressing her at every point on her skin. She stopped struggling. She realized she was free. The air had expected so much of her, to breathe, to talk, to please, to live. The water just gave.

            Then she felt a concussion in the soft liquid surrounding her, saw the side window web into shattered chunks. A white hand thrust through the murk, grabbing the collar of her sweater. Her first instinct was to jerk away but then her last oxygenated brain cell clicked into action, demanding she go limp as she was dragged through the jagged glass. She didn’t bother holding her breathe – the water didn’t expect it of her.

            Instead, she let herself lose consciousness, the last image before blacking out incomprehensible.

            Her father, glowing skin and black eyes, had turned. She couldn’t swear to it, nor did she want to, but her final impression was of his pale fingers grabbing for her as she was yanked clear. 

Selling the soul

I'm finally making it official, opening up my editing and publishing consultant business to more clients.

Please visit LORINCZ LITERARY SERVICES  at

   facebook.com/lorinczliteraryservices

The full website will be launched in two weeks but, really, everything you need to know is on the facebook page. If you need an editor, writing coach, or help with your proposal, flick on over to Lorincz Literary Services facebook page.

Fun with words

Hey, make sure you stop by my full website (http://hollylorincz.wordpress.com) and play my sentence writing contest. I run a new one every week. It'll take you less than a minute, only a smidge of your brainpower, and it's fun. You can impress your friends with your clever word play and be famous all at the same time.

Here's what this week's word play looks like:

Write an interesting or funny sentence using the word "moonstruck."

DEADLINE:    February 11th (coming up on Valentine's Day!)

SENTENCE WRITING CONTEST: Every Monday a new, interesting vocabulary word will be posted here, as well as a sentence using that word.

Your job is to create and post a new, better sentence in the comment box, using the same word. Yes, you may change the form of the word. Yes, I'll be the judge. Yes, I am a subjective judge  ( I like clever or funny, I hate bigotry).

The winning sentence will be announced here the following Monday.

THIS WEEK'S WORD:    ~ MOONSTRUCK~   

Need a simple definition reminder? Moonstruck: Unable to think or act normally, esp. because of being in love.

SENTENCE TO BEAT:    "What's wrong with ya', girl?" the old woman yelled above the noise of the giant compactor, raising her eyebrows and waggling her bony hips with a snaggle-toothed grin, implying I was moonstruck, coocoo for the beautiful cocoa puff watching over our sector of the factory; little did she know, I'd eaten the bowl, had my fill as it were, only to find him lacking, oh so lacking, in flavor and any meaningful substance.

http://hollylorincz.wordpress.com/2013/02/04/writing-contest-27-use-the-word-moonstruck-in-a-sentence/

I've arrived; my company email address proves it

Today, I am jumping off a cliff. Letting my body drop into an unfamiliar void called . . . happiness. Spread-eagled, J. Jill cardigan flapping in the wind, I’m grinning. I’m pretty sure there’s a net down there somewhere (I hope it can bear my weight. Being sick didn’t make me thinner.) I have to believe it’s there. I have to believe because if I don’t let myself feel this joy I will be labeled the biggest dumb a** ever to walk the earth.  I’ve been offered a new job, working for a literary agency. So, today, I’m taking a leap of faith – I’m going to believe this job is real, not just a mirage. Today, I’m going to believe the future paychecks are real, the daily getting-to-use-my-brain-and-discuss-books-and-authors thing is real. Today, I’m researching the publishing industry because – ta da – I’m a new cog. For real.

I taught and coached for fifteen years. I was kinda’ good at it. I was forced out of what I knew and loved by a chronic debilitating illness (Epstein Barr, the sleeping sickness, the stupidest disease you can get). Being a person who thrives on animated, intelligent interaction, projects, and the satisfaction of helping others find their voice, it was hard to be at home, alone, being non-productive. More than hard. I was sick and lonely and slowly devolving into a dark, depressed zombie. Then I realized I was ignoring the gift concealed in the blackness. Time. Time to write. Time to cherish, really cherish, my son. Time to clean the house and cook. The last I ignored.  I mean, what the hell. What kind of gift is that? That’s like being given peanut brittle when you just had your tonsils removed.

I finished my book. I published some short stories and poetry. I found an agent. I got dropped by my insurance company. I sunk my family into debt. I started teaching a writing class at the community college. I memorized the Star Wars Character Encyclopedia with my son. I figured out how to parcel out my energy, to pace myself. I started a second book. And now, as of this week, I am fulfilling every English major’s dream by getting hired at a literary agency. It’s almost too good to be true. But it’s real.

 I’ll tell you a little secret. I didn’t jump off that cliff of happiness until I knew this whole getting-to-use-my-brain-and-discuss-books-and-authors thing was real. I’m cautious like that. So, what finally made me let my guard down, believe in the good news? I’ve been given a company email address. That’s right. I’ve arrived.