(note: this is from a post I wrote for the Southern Authors Blog)

…there was a first sentence that killed any chance I ever had to find an agent.

It’s an undeniable truth.  For all the work you put into that manuscript, for all the effort you pour into character, story, plot devices, twists, graphical oddities, and the like, you won’t get a solid read without a strong opening.  You may feel, as you package that manuscript in a manilla envelope, and drop it off at the Post Office (hey, please allow me these simple rememberences, and don’t remind me that my email inbox is the post office of the future…I’m not ready yet.), that you are a solitary voice on the way to a private meeting with the agent–or agents–of your choosing, but the truth is, you are but a shallow echo in the cavernous cacophony of potential suitors.  The agent simply does not have the time to meander, and suffer their way through every manuscript that arrives on their desk.  It boils down to what you present when the assumed Once upon a time is out of the way.  Hook them, or you’re in the slush pile.

Seems a bit harsh, right?  Seems like they’ll miss some true quality simply by stopping a few paragraphs into a manuscript.  And they do.  They miss quite a few.  They miss quite a lot.  They miss them all, and stamp them with, “Not.”  Which is the reason why you have to invest so much into that intro.  You have to make them want to read on.  Sure, they might push forward if you display talent, and the potential to even things up as the book goes along.  That’s the kind of work that can be molded.  But if you offer a generic peek into your world, or hand them a limp stick to walk through your path, they’ll just toss you aside, and forget your name before they’ve properly let go.  They don’t have the time for writers who won’t invest the time in a few paragraphs that make their time worthwhile.  SEE?

You don’t have to blow something up, or kill someone, in the first paragraph (though it never hurts, right?), but you do have to offer something.  Think of any time in your childhood when you had to ask mom, or dad, or grandpa, or whomever, for that big favor. That big request. That biggest of the big things that you wanted, or places that you wanted to go.  How did you present it?  Did you just run up screaming, “OHMYGODMOMIHAVETOHAVEIT!”  And if you did, it probably didn’t get you too far.  Surely, some explanation would be necessary to woo her/him/them.  Or, instead, did you take some time to plan out the intro to that conversation, so that you calmly presented yourself more in the, “So, you remember that time you said I should broaden my spiritual horizons?  Well guess where Randy, and his family are going?” frame? A place in which the question was intriguing, and the answer was left dangling ever so slightly out of reach?  Well, your manuscript is what you want published, and the agent is your mom–far too busy to invest in lengthy discussion for something she’s not likely to let you do/have, and unwilling to take your word for it simply because you’re screaming at her about it.

Take the time.  Plan it out.  If your manuscript is solid, if it is strong, it will stand on its own (or can be worked through edits) if you offer a door worth walking through.  Work on the intro.  Find the interest.  Make it move in your hands, draw your reader (and, naturally, the agent) to the pages beyond.  It’s the kickstart to the engine.  Make it purr.

Keep it reigned in, and don’t let it get away from you.

The agent will love you for it.

(from a blog on the Southern Authors Blog)

Creativity is an instrument of great torment.  Not always is the torment self-inflicted, but generally speaking it’s swung about like a screeching cat at the end of a rope, taking out any and everyone in its path with the razor sharp precision of an unclipped claw.  It doesn’t come easily, and in the particular case of writing, it isn’t often absolved from a clumsy hand.  In fact, creativity itself doesn’t ensure much more than the ability to tell really fantastic stories, that often take the breath from strangers minutes before they beat you over the head for lying so badly, and wasting their time in the process.

In the end, that’s what writing is: The ability to tell creative, and sometimes fantastical, lies that stand to belief long enough to keep people from beating the hell out of you.  The best make it through a career with nary a bump on the noggin’, while the remaining bunch range from generally bloodied, to horrible stumps of pulverized humanity (or semi-humanity for some).  To be in the latter, well, let’s simply say that a career is the last thing on your mind.  Generally, you’re more diligent with your insurance premiums than your skills as a writer, since only one of those guarantees that your bills are mostly paid, or that your loved ones have some sense of financial gain from your death.

I learned this many years ago, after a number of failed attempts to crack the publishing brotherhood, and decided instead to take the necessary steps to ensure that I took as few lumps as possible on the trek to writering stardydom.  It wasn’t an easy journey, and ultimately it cost me dearly, but it brought my writing to a new level of exuberant glee that I, myself, could never even reach.  And though it doesn’t behoove me to share this, nor will it enhance my opportunity at fame, or glory, I will tell you the secret–the terrible secret–of how I altered the path of my writing life forever.  How I turned the stacks of moldy writing cheese into a glittering bath of gold (and honey, though I have yet to use that).

I bought it, outright, from the Elvin Wordsmiths of the Underworld.

It didn’t cost much, actually.  You’d be surprised how cheaply these guys grant such skill.  The greater cost was my cat Rocky, whom they fancied mightily, and insisted I leave in their care.  It was heartbreaking, but ultimately worth it.  I mean, I loved that cat, don’t get me wrong.  There aren’t too many guys who will wander into the Underworld with a cat sprouting from his backpack like a fuzzy, chattering, well, cat in a sack I guess, but I did it.  Granted, I only took Rocky with me because I had read that the Elves were terribly frightened of cats, especially the ones with the ability to hiss a river, like my Rocky.  That turned out to be a crock.  See?  There’s an example of a creative liar who’s gonna get his head kicked in.  You don’t tell people they can take their cat to the Underworld, as a means of protection!  Surely he had to know that someone would do this, at some point.

Ugh.

Anyway, they were really nice creatures, and knew an awful lot about the craft.  Of course, if I had simply wanted to learn how to be a better writer I would have just taken a class, or read a book, or gone to a conference, or a seminar.  Then I’d still have Rocky.

Crap.

Um, hm.  Did I really give my cat (and cash, don’t forget the cash!) up for this?  Wow.  That kinda makes me look bad.  I mean, it’s pretty cool to be able to say that Elves magicked up some skill for me, and that I got published because of it.  And it was a fantastic journey deep into the mountains of (not gonna tell you).  Not to mention the cavernous waterfalls, and ancient riddles that moved walls, and opened channels of water that flushed me under the mountains like… 

I miss my cat. 

You know, it might have been worth it if I had seen a dragon. Anything is worth it, if you get to see a dragon.  But, well, nope.  Just some stupid elves that stole my cat, and gave me the ability to lie in an entertaining fashion that may, or may not, result in my head getting bashed in some day.  So, well, hey, this has been fun.  

Well, I’m gonna go now.  I want to see if I can find pictures of Rocky.  Maybe I can sell enough books to fund another expedition to the Underworld.  Then I can get my cat back, and blow the Elves to hell. 

After I go beat the hell out of the writer that told me I could take my cat.