On the Hooves of Failure

That could be the title of my autobiography! It’s been a pattern. I wrote my first book while I taught high school (I used that in-class experience later while teaching writing workshops at conferences, retreats and on cruises). Though my agent was unable to sell my first novel, I had written its first draft while working as a weight loss counselor. That experience later helped in writing the proposal for a cookbook which didn’t sell despite three agents trying.

I wrote another book, food themed, and that led to my decision to try to sell the cookbook again. It failed with another agent. I raised two boys. As a writer, I was lucky enough to stay home, be involved in my boys’ educations, and speak at the schools. One thing I did was speak on writing topics. Along the way I failed to sell my third novel.   

On the side, I did some in-home cooking instruction. I coupled that with my experience cooking with my hubby's Chinese family and my weight loss counseling expertise, pitched myself, and was paid for my food thoughts and recipes. A dollar a word seemed like a lot of money for something that was sheer pleasure.

The cookbook set aside again, I started a suspense novel that involves food and Asian themes, then I tossed in an amateur sleuth who is a cooking instructor. Somewhere in the middle of all this I started a horror novel that instead became an award-winning screenplay that didn't sell, the same fate of eleven of my subsequent award-wining screenplays. But the experience improved my fiction, and my sample scripts ended up catching the attention of a producer which landed me a connection and job with an indie director and later script doctor work.

I have eight file drawers filled with all of my drafts. After writing for over 20 years, my “submissions” spread sheet has far more rejections on it than acceptances. My dear “sister,” Janet, made a great suggestion. I shouldn’t call them rejections; I should call them “declines.” So I changed the heading of that column. She was right. The publishers declined my submissions; that didn’t mean they’d rejected me or even my skills. They simply had declined that project. For whatever reason.

My life seems to have the theme of: OK start another book but do something else at the same time.

I continued to edit for others, becoming a script and book doctor.  I continued to teach writing. In fits and starts I wrote for newspapers and magazines and blogs. The exposure got me writer-for-hire gigs and allowed me to coach and midwife successful books for other writers.

Another agent took on the cookbook, she brought a contract to me, I signed and the photographer backed out at the last minute. The cookbook went on hold again. From the time I started writing to today, I’ve had poems, shorts, essays and flash pieces accepted and published, both in paper and on line. These were the little things that continued to feed my confidence that I would eventually sell a longer work and be able to do one of those fun key note speeches about my “overnight success.”

Last year, a client referred me for a celebrity ghostwriting gig that some would feel was the writing job of a lifetime. It might have allowed my husband to retire, but it ended up getting sabotaged and thrown into a tailspin.

Even that traumatic experience ended up being grist for the mill and there are 300 pages of that story in my memory stick now. Along the way I’ve been offered representation by seven agents. Yet none of my own book-length works--fiction or cookbook--has been published.

In true lemons-to-lemonade style, I don’t discount all the benefits I got along the way from those efforts. I am proof that success can follow on the hooves of failure, IF you parlay the experiences. Looking back on it, all my writing detours led to something good. If nothing else they gave me a theme for the column I write for BTS Book Reviews, appropriately name “Karen’s Writing Detours.”

 All I do now to make money, to forward my name recognition, to land that next cruise gig, to reach out for another chance to write, all my opportunities come on the hooves of failure.
--Inkpot


 

Teaching Through the Baltic – Part Three – Beer in Estonia

We’d started in Southhampton, had visited Zeebrugge and its famous beer, Rostock in former E. Germany and its darker beer, Stockholm and its unmemorable beer, Helsinki and its watered-down, poor excuse for beer, and St. Petersberg--where we had no time for beer on our elaborate and expensive excursion.  I’d taught “Have a Great Story to Tell” and “Writing Your Life” to the curious and receptive who’d passed up a popular quiz game, mud therapy in the spa, a glass blowing show and the fruit and vegetable carving demo.  We were just over halfway through our two-week cruise.

If you missed earlier ports and what it was like teaching on board, feel free to visit:

 
http://sistersofthequill.blogspot.com/2013/07/teaching-my-way-through-baltic_16.html   and

http://sistersofthequill.blogspot.com/2013/07/teaching-through-baltic-part-two.html

 

As our capable captain guided us into our next port, beer didn’t come to mind.  Mistake. 

 Tallin, Estonia is a delightful sum of many quaint parts: little signs hanging above store fronts, cobblestone roads worth walking on despite the risk of twisting an ankle, ornate lamps, earth-toned vertical homes, 

arched doorways, turrets and crosses cutting the sky, cute balconies, archery practice for a price, monuments to successful struggles against neighboring countries, sidewalk cafes and an unexpected gem, The Beer House.

After roaming the town between sun showers, we slid into an outdoor bench where locals enjoyed elaborate salads and beers.  We ordered two different varieties from the huge beer-shaped menu.  16 oz each. 

Wen ordered a silky light Tallin beer; for me it was a local honey beer.  Our delicious first sips were distracted when two 300+ pound brothers who might have been twins tried to pry and struggle their way into the bench seat next door.  Finally, perhaps spotting our dismayed glances, they decided to come and scootch in next to us.  They ordered beers that had to be 1 ½ liters.  I thought, “This ought to be interesting.”  And it certainly was!  These two brothers were amusing, and our hour or so with them was one of the most memorable of the trip. 

They were frequent travelers to Estonia from Amsterdam and had raunchy tales to tell of their homeland that went beyond medicinal greens and red-light districts.  They shared a unique scoop on Estonia and Holland. 

 

Our dinky beers paled in comparison to theirs so we slid our tiny diminutive butts close to them, took up their mugs (larger than my head) and snapped photos for fun. Since the pictures were on Wen’s smart phone, he immediately emailed them to our new giant friends.

  We learned a few lessons: don’t judge a dinner neighbor by his size, open up to even the most unusual fellow travelers, and be sure to tell others about the joy of Tallin’s honey beer, a nice finish to a beautiful day in Estonia!  The best of our trip!