Writing Update: The Latest Manuscript!

In my last post, I mentioned I had developed, drafted, and completed a brand new book while waiting to hear back from editors on my first (agented) manuscript.

Phew. (that felt like a mouthful!)

I also promised a post about it, so here's that promised post!

So, as you know, I've been on submission for some time now (here's more about the submission process and traditional publishing), and they always say, "if you're on submission, make sure to be working on a new project!" (At least, I think they say this??? *shrugs shoulders*.)

And, as suggested, I started working on a new project.

I developed the idea for this project in November of 2017. After I told my literary agent about this new idea I had, he suggested I create a blurb for it and develop a synopsis. (I know, I know, a synopsis sounds sooo scary, but it's not as intimidating as you may think! Here's a post I wrote a while back on how I develop a synopsis.)

By November 28th of 2017, I had completed my synopsis of this new book idea and sent it over to my agent.

He loved the idea, and though I should have continued to work on it, I was soo caught up in edits for the book we were sending out to publishers, that I put it on the back burner.

Blah.

All this to say, I didn't actually write the first chapter of this book until April of 2018. (Gasp!) I tested the waters by sending it to one of my faithful beta readers, and she had so much positive feedback that it lit a fire in me and got me writing again.

Thanks girl, you know who you are.

But, by the summer of 2018, life got chaotic, and it was hard to carve out time to write. My writer's block was on a whole new level of ridiculousness, and even when I tried, I barely got a sentence out of me. It continued like this through October of 2018, and by the Holidays, I had lost my job due to some bizarre misclassification case (it was a nightmare). I didn't find a steady job until the end of January (which, btw, my new job is great!), and after that, I found myself ecstatic about life again. The concept of creating new worlds in my head through books and writing was where I wanted to be.

By February of 2019, I was writing almost everyday. My main character in this new book was practically screaming words into thin air for me, and I needed to get everything written down as quickly as I could. For weeks, this book was all I ever thought about. It stuck to me like a terrible virus, and the only way to rid it was to complete the manuscript. (Like, I couldn't even sleep in on the weekends--that's how menacing this new book was! And, for the record, I loooveee sleep.)

By March 4th, I was able to partner with my beta reader/editor to work on drafts with me as I continued to work on the manuscript.

Then, by April 8th, my doctor diagnosed me with Dry Sinus Bronchitis. (It was the worst.) She prescribed me three types of medication, and she also suggested I change my allergy medicine (guys, my allergies are killing me this year--anyone else feel this way?).

With all this new medication, I couldn't focus at work, so I stayed home for a couple of days--terribly sick--and I wrote from sun up to sun down. My dog and my boyfriend were worried, but the words kept coming, and it was hard to sleep!

On April 11th, right before midnight, I sent my agent a delirious email about how I'd finished the book and how excited I was. This was on a Thursday evening, and the poor guy probably thought I'd gone bonkers (plus, the months of April/May are usually pretty busy for those working in the publishing industry. There are many events!).

And on Saturday, April 13th, I had finished self-edits of my manuscript, and the first draft of the book clocked in at a little over 54,000 words.

I sent it over to my agent immediately, and he confirmed that he received it on Monday, April 15th.

You guys, I am BEYOND excited for this new project!!!!!!!!!!!
I can barely breathe when I think about it. Can you tell???

Anyway, last time I sent a full manuscript to my agent, it took him two weeks and three days to read it (I know, I'm a wee bit crazy).

It has officially been one full week, and I'm hanging onto the world by a ledge as I await commentary.

I'm not even sure how many details I can share on this new book (because contracts and whatever), but I developed the idea of this book from a word I had come across--monachopsis (mawn-a-khop-sis). It means: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.

And as fate would have it, my main character is a time traveler (cue another gasp here!).

So again, I'm not sure how much I can share, but here's an aesthetic I've created for this book. You are more than free to develop your on theories on what you think it might be about.

I'm wishing and praying and crossing every finger and toe I have in hopes that this book makes it through the submission process successfully. 

Ultimately, and for the last nine years, my dream has been to get my stories into the hands of readers. 

So, more than ever, I'm really hoping for a breakthrough. 

Friends, wish me luck!

I'll keep you all updated with this new adventure. 

Still have more questions? Leave a comment below.
Like these posts? Share them in your writing community; it helps me know that I should make more.

Till next time, blog world!

And of course, Happy Writing. :)

Writing Update: On Submission

So, like, being on submission kind of sucks.

But it's also exciting.

It's a strange dichotomy.

Recent insta post: check it out!

Here's what they don't tell you: "Once you've found a literary agent, you must then submit your manuscript to a publishing house. You may be an overnight success, or you may never succeed at all."

It's a bit bonkers.

I've been on submission for two years now (it could be more or less, but it's been so long, I clearly can't remember the exact time frame).

In this time, I've drafted, developed, and completed an entirely new manuscript (more on this to come!). My agent is still very confident in the book I have on submission, and I feel he will work tirelessly to get it into the hands of the world. But as the clock only continues to turn, I truly believe that the current book I have on submission is hard to sell because it's not a high-concept commercial YA (side note: is anyone else struggling with this, too?).

Long story short: the world can't handle it, y'all.

This is such a strange journey, too, because at any given moment, my dream could be made into reality, and in that same moment, it could be turned into dust (hard stuff to swallow--literally).

Anyway, that's the official, official, update on where I am in this lovely writing process.

Hopefully (all fingers and toes crossed), I'll have another book on submission soon!

Again, more to come on this new manuscript. But also, is anyone else struggling with being on submission to publishing houses, or being on submission with literary agents?
Share below!

Still have more questions? Leave a comment below.
Like these posts? Share them in your writing community; it helps me know that I should make more.

Till next time, blog world.

How Writers Made It BIG: Gillian Flynn

“Every author kind of secretly wants their book to be made into a movie,” said New York Times bestselling author, Gillian Flynn.

https://www.rollingstone.com/movies/features/gone-girl-author-gillian-flynn-i-killed-my-darlings-20141003

Gillian and I have two things in common: writing (but of course), and Kansas City. So it's no surprise that I wanted to do a post on the kick-ass, story guru from my hometown.

Like most aspiring writers, Gillian found herself writing between working. At the time she was employed as a film and book writer for Entertainment Weekly Magazine.

“I would write for a while and get busy with work and not write for awhile,” she said. “I was covering movies at the time so I was flying all over the place to film sets everywhere."

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/read-gillian-flynn

By 2006, she published her first book, Sharp Objects. In 2009, she published her second book, Dark Places. And by July 4th, 2012, her third book hit No 1 on NYT bestseller list after only a month of its release. If you ask me: she was gone, girl. (ha, get it?)

Okay, okay, dad puns aside, Gillian sky-rocketed with her novel, Gone Girl. With the unexpected twists and turns, and the enticing tale of her main characters' toxic marriage, the book was picked up as a movie and projected to hit over $300 million before its release.

And that, my friends, is what I call real-life goals.

Now at 47, all of Gillian's books are optioned for film, and she has officially clocked in at one of the world's top-earning writers. Can someone say, cha ching?

Why Gone Girl worked for Flynn:

Well, Gillian says, "Oh, I finally figured out how to write a book." That, and she was able to tackle the push-pull dynamics between a long-term relationship from a woman and a man's perspective. This story wasn't exactly a happy story, and I think the realness of it contributed to its success. 

Who is Gillian's Agent?

I couldn't find a ton of information on Gillian's publishing/querying story. I imagine, since she already had some great credentials under her belt with her prior job, she was seen as a pretty legit writer. She was picked up by the Leving | Greenberg | Rostan Literary Agency--try saying that three times fast--and was agented by Stephanie Rostan. Her books went on to be officially published by Penguin Random House. 

How can we learn from Gillian?

We can learn from Gillian by knowing that even if our debut novel doesn't do as good as we hoped, we can still make it to the top by continuing what we love: writing. 

We can also note that killing our darlings isn't a bad thing--it's a superb move. 

References:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/life/2012/10/08/gillian-flynn-

interview/1610623/http://www.chicagotribune.com/suburbs/skokie/news/chi-skr-gone-girl-author-screenwriter-visits-skokie-amid-wild-run-20150119-story.html

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/oct/03/gone-girl-phenomenon-gillian-flynn

That's it for this blog post, friends!

Drop a comment below on your reaction, or an author you'd like me to cover next time.  

Till next time, blog world. 

And remember: don't stop writing. 

Representation . . . What?!

Ahhhh, Writing friends!

It has happened.

One month later, and here were are. A literary agent wants to represent me.

How crazy-exciting is that?

I've waited years for this moment, and all I can do is smile and dance and try not to yell too loudly.

I have soo many questions--most of them starting and stopping with the word, "how".
I am thrilled and so full of awe.
It's an amazing feeling to know that someone who has been working in the industry for so long finds potential in my work.

I'm in a small state of "wowza-land" . . . . (I'm pretty sure I just made that up.)
But in all seriousness, I am at a loss for words.
.
.
.

In other news, another agent liked my #DVpit tweet!

It was by luck, honestly. I had accidentally used the #DVpit hashtag a month too early while I was participating in #PitMad. Then, as carried away as I get, I forgot to participate in #DVpit and was super bummed about it. Literally. I probably stared at other pitches for about twenty minutes, sulking in what "could" have been. I left twitter alone for a while after that, and when I checked my notifications yesterday, I saw that an agent wanted me to send over my query and the first ten pages of my MS. This was the SAME DAY that I was offered representation.

Imagine all the freaking out.

Of course I sent over my query and pages, as well as let her know about the offer. The next step for me is to contact all the agents I've recently queried, letting them know that there is a deadline ahead.

I'm nervous and will be using help from here to send out the right email formats.

Let the query wars begin.

 . . . also, still freaking out over here.

#PitMad What?!?!

So, it appears I've started looking for agents again . . . 

This time, I had luck!

Friends, did you just hear that?! Seven years of queries and finally . . . FINALLY.

Okay--so here's the story: It's no surprise I've been sitting on a completed manuscript for a little over a year now. After the first round of queries and rejections, one could say I lost my confidence. I mean, this is my THIRD book, numerous rejections, and all I can think is, "I need a break."

After months of my boyfriend persuading me to get back out there, I began querying again--small publishing houses and agencies this time. I conveniently hop back on Twitter five days before #PitMad, and . . .

This is where the freaking out begins.

It's been years since I've participated in #PitMad. Thankfully, a lot of the writers I follow on twitter, kept mentioning #DVpit and #PreDv (go to this link here to learn more about it), and #PreDv gave me the chance to practice my one-liner before #PitMad. I acquired some pretty great help from @JenniferZeynab, @KatCho and @JL_Dugan. Then, the next day, just a couple of hours before my West Coast Swing class, I get a like from an Agent.

*Insert internal screams here*

After a few more moments of freaking out, I put on my focus goggles and start researching this guy like crazy.

I like what I find, so I send over my query, and I'm so nervous that I forget to mention word count and genre.

The next day at work, I accidentally open my email and find this:









More freaking out:

At some point I decide to get my crap together and send over the requested MS.
And now, here I am, waiting.

I'm so, so nervous. I'm nervous and excited. I've got all my fingers and toes crossed and God is probably tired of hearing my prayers.

Even if he decides to eventually pass, I'm just happy I've gotten this far.

So here I am, writing friends, I've entered another realm of waiting.

Wish me luck.

The Year of Beauty and Chaos

 Somewhere between beauty and chaos there is existence. 

The seasons change rapidly, the sun runs to meet the moon, and the stars chase the hills as the earth rotates.

In the midst of that, there's me
Little ol' me.
The rambunctious me, the sad me, the overly-excited me, the constantly changing me.

There's the me that wants to write until the flowers crumble and the snow comes, and then there's that side of me that can't do anything but watch a Netflix series I've seen three times.

There's the me that wants to write this blog, and then there's the me that wants to be the best dancer in the world.

There's the me that sings in the bathroom with an acoustic to my chest, and there's the me that wants to crawl into my bed and sleep all day.

There are so many sides to me, so many different talents, so many dreams--and somehow all of that has lead me back here, to the start of my writing phenomenon, to the beginning of my beginning, to my writing daze.

Here, I welcome you all back into my life as I try, again, to enter the writing world.
I will warn you, writing friends, it is tough.
I've sent more queries out, I've tackled a synopsis, and I've even checked out more writing venues.
I have failed and failed and failed in hopes to help writers--like us--who won't give up.

I hope that you all follow me on this new journey.

If any of you are interested in my recent novel (I'll post a query soon), I've posted a few chapters on Wattpad.
If any of you are interested in being a beta/critique reader contact me through email or in a comment below.

To all of you going through seasons of writing, I'm pouring my luck out to you.

Until next time, writing friends.

Writing with Depression and Anxiety

I don't know if I've ever told the blog this, but I have anxiety and depression. 

Fact: I've never been diagnosed by a doctor. Fact: I know myself well enough to describe how I feel. 

Medically, Anxiety is described as a nervous disorder characterized by a state of excessive uneasiness and apprehension, typically with compulsive behavior. (Trust me, I've had my fair share of compulsive regrets.)

And Depression is described as a mood disorder that causes a persistent feeling of sadness and hopelessness as well as a lost in interest. 

Together, the two of these can create an explosion of chaos within each other. It's like mixing two great colors together but constantly getting brown. It's somewhat frustrating. 

The thing about the two of these mental illnesses within myself is that sometimes I feel more anxiety than I feel depression, and sometimes I can't pinpoint why I feel the way I do--like why I'm happy now, but how I can be stuck in a mood two days from now.

Though I've sought help for these problems, I've found that writing is a saving grace. I wish I could thoroughly explain how writing makes me feel--the endorphins that are released--but I can't. I wish I could sit inside of your chest, so I could simply show you because I know it'd be easier that way.

But writing literally opens me up in a way that's terrifyingly beautiful--like crazy beautiful. I mean, have you ever written while in a mood? You get some psychotic scenarios, but you also get really extravagant ones, and you wonder how the hell that happened, but then you end up with an entire chapter based off one sentence.

It's completely magical.

This post isn't particularly special, but I felt the need to share my experience on writing with depression and anxiety, and how having a mental illness doesn't have to hinder you or your dreams.

Honestly, I bet you could reach the stars if you wanted to.

Here's a clip of writing from my latest manuscript, Rubatosis. Every aspect of this book is covered with my inner problems, and I'm okay with that. Everyone should be.

"She watched the sun in the distance, fading west, and she took note of how it touched every surface. Nothing was left behind, not even her eyes. It was all these small things, and she wanted to cry. Was it that bad, she thought. Was it so, so very bad that she couldn’t see? Maybe this place really did hold the key that drove people mad, and all it took was a turn and one small thing. The past moments mimicked a kaleidoscope in her head, and what she realized was that she wanted to spend this time with Noah, and she set off to find him.
Ila walked to his shack, still pressing her arms against her abdomen, and she didn’t knock when she entered the dimly lit room. Noah acknowledged her presence. He was seated on a rocking chair in the corner with his guitar in hand. He played a gentle melody, and the tune echoed against the walls and vibrated in her ears. The chord progression he chose mimicked the wings of a bird in flight, and he picked the strings intricately before he began to sing. Then he closed his eyes as the words of the song took him away to a place of serenity and heartache.
Ila sat on the ground before him, legs crossed, and she studied the shadows in his face. His eyelashes laced together; his uneven lips opening and parting to the lyrics, and his facial expressions slightly changing with the chords. She could tell that his passion for music was fueled by the brokenness inside of him, and it was one of the best things she’d ever witnessed. In this moment, he was more of the moon than he’d ever been, shining so brightly in this darkness they’d created. She had a hard time fathoming how he existed in her world. Up to this point, she had heard him sing multiple songs, but she still hadn’t grown tired of it. She was obsessed with his voice and the power behind it.
Noah rocked in his chair, moving to the tempo, and the song went on for minutes. They didn’t speak. He didn’t open his eyes, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to answer her question to where he had been the last few days. After all, there was no such a thing as a good lie."

Till next time.

WANTED: Beta and Critique Readers

Friends, I've done it. I'VE COMPLETED THE MANUSCRIPT. 
(Refer to previous blog post where I sign my name in blood and make promises, here.)

What this simply means is that I need you. I need everyone's help. 

I am in search for a few beta readers and critique readers to help perfect my manuscript so that I can begin the agenting/query process. 

If you've ever been in search of an agent, then you know exactly where I'm coming from. 

Here are the basics: 

Beta Readers: I need beta readers for content of the manuscript and feedback. Does the manuscript hold a solid theme that prevails to the end? Do the characters develop in a correct manner? Could you relate to the characters in a way that would make you want to purchase the book?

Critique Readers: I need two critique readers who love dealing with grammar. I'll admit, I haven't been too particular with comma placements in this first draft, and you'll probably find a homophone or two. But that's why I need you. Along with grammar, feel free to judge the content too. Every little bit helps. 

The novel is about 54,000 words--give or take. Though I haven't started the query process, here is a rough overview of the story, Rubatosis: 

At ten-years-old, Noah Dean Turner learns that he has a disorder with his heart. The sound is more of a tripled thud-thud-fail than a resounding steady drum. Paralyzed by this new truth, Noah becomes determined to find the missing piece of logic in the world. He wants to know if his life, and everything in it, amounts up to anything at all.

 By Eighteen, Noah has collected over one hundred books. The words and characters stain his brain, morphing him into a boy with a knack for music, an interest for birds, and a deep addiction to literature.

 Quickly, Noah discovers that many of the books he’s read relates to the people he knows, so he labels them, giving them stories that play out in their actual life. But after an unfortunate series of events followed by the death of his granddad and living with his promiscuous aunt, Noah sets out to discover his own story. By chance, he comes upon Camp Neodesha, a retreat center where many people go for solace, but where Noah is slowly going mad.

 Then Noah meets a writer. From her one green eye to her one brown, Noah doesn’t understand how she makes sense in the world he’s created for himself. Worse than that, however, is that Noah can’t seem to figure her out; he can’t place a story on her that he’s already read. His desire to unveil her only brings him closer to her, but Noah knows that he is fatal. He is a ticking time bomb, and at any moment, he feels his heart could literally beat right out of his chest.

It is best to contact me here: http://agentqueryconnect.com/index.php?/topic/33765-chapter-by-chapter-swaps-rubatosis/ 

But if you don't have an Agent Query account, feel free to leave a comment below or fill out a "Contact Me Form" in the right column.

I'm really excited about this, friends.

Wish me luck as I push onward.

Warmest Regards,

Britney

Rubatosis: The Unveiling

If you follow my blog at all, you are well aware by now that I am knee-deep into a new manuscript.

This, ladies and gents, is the unveiling of it.  

But really, this is nothing new. I've had the characters in mind for a year now. I've actually written them into two other stories, before this one, and then deleted it. 

I was struggling, bad, but I was so in love with my characters--Noah specifically--that I wanted to make it work. I knew I had a story for him. So March of this year, I was finally able to figure that story out, and in about a week, I finished the synopsis. 

Then, something weird happened. 

And when I say weird, I mean weirder than that girl showing off her dance moves to the Frankenstein-looking guy in the GIF above. 

I met the main character of my book. 

Yeah, go ahead and re-read that sentence above, people! I freaking MET the MAIN CHARACTER of MY book! How bizarre is that?!?!

Let me explain as thoroughly as I can. 

A year ago I produced the idea of my character, Noah. (I had previously named him Theo--meaning God's gift--but it was super corny so I changed it.) The first image I'd ever had of Noah was that of him sitting on the porch of a small farmhouse, watching a swarm of birds fly by, they were migrating south. I was so intrigued by this character that I immediately wrote down everything I knew about him. For example, I knew that Noah was interested in birds. He was curious about them, and he wanted to know why they did what they did. I knew that Noah was an adventurer because of it--he's an explorer of many things--he likes to learn. I knew that Noah could sing and play the guitar, and along with that, I knew that he had a deep love for books. He collects them, and he spends most of his time reading them. He actually connects with them so much that he is able to relate the stories he's read to the people he's encountered in real life. Deeper than that, though, I knew that Noah was broken. At a young age, he had already experienced so much life, more than anyone he knew, and it made him rough around the edges--a depressive by nature. I also knew that Noah was a lover, and a genuine guy just trying to figure out what life entails. But there was one thing I knew about Noah that would carry the theme of the entire book: he has a condition with his heart that causes it to beat two times too fast. It's how I got the title. When rubatosis is defined, it means, the unsettling awareness of one's own heartbeat. 

Perfect, right?

And then I met . . . we'll call him Jo.*

Before I met him, I was already warned that this Jo character had a mild obsession with birds. In fact, that's all I knew about him for a couple of weeks, and, to be quite honest, I didn't think anything of it. When I met him at the church camp I interned with this summer (yes, this is the one from last summer as well,) I knew that Jo and Noah were very similar . . . and this was after he explained to me how birds reproduce. I didn't realize it all at once--though there was a turning point when I was like, "what the hell? Is this actually happening right now?" 

Here's a timeline of things: 

*note: I've already had Noah written out for about nine months up until this point. 

Three weeks into the summer: Jo and I become friends. He's reading this book to me about science (He's an Environmental Bio major,) and about half an hour into it, and after he's already asked, "are you sure you want me to keep reading out loud? I could do this all day, but I don't want to annoy you," about a thousand times, I find myself wondering if, in fact, he could do it all day. So I ask him, and for some reason that I can't remember, he takes me to the trunk of his car. When he opens it, inside lies a little more than fifty books spilling from this old duffel bag. There was probably more. He told me that he had plans of reading all of them this summer. That he just really liked reading. That day I remember quoting, "You remind me of my book character." To this he said, "Are you writing about me?" My response: "Yeah. I guess I am." 

A few days later: He walks into the dining hall and starts playing his guitar. He was good from what I could tell. Then he began to sing, and I about lost it. The kid is freaking amazing. Like, go record an album immediately, amazing. 

Sometime in the middle of the summer: At this point, I've known Jo for awhile, and I gather that he's a very passionate, very thorough, person. I also learn that, like Noah, he's endured a lot of heartaches in his life. Because of it, it's changed his perception on how he views people and the outside world. 

Toward the end of summer: Now, this is the part that baffled me the most. I'm in the kitchen, yappin' about something unimportant, and out of nowhere, Jo says, "Yeah, I have a heart condition." He tells me that as a child, he went to get it checked out multiple times, but at some point he got tired of it. He learned that he had an abnormal heartbeat, and I'm pretty sure he was so nonchalant about the whole thing he said something along the lines of: "If I die, I die."

I was so freaked out about everything that I about died. Literally, right there. And I tried to tell him that he was Noah, but he didn't understand. 

Then I tried to tell anyone who would listen to me. I felt like I was going crazy, and I needed to process what was happening. 

People understood, but they didn't. Not really: I met a character that I made up in my head. These things don't happen often--if, ever. As I'm writing this, I'm still completely baffled. Noah is so real, I can touch him. I can touch him and know that every good and bad thing about him resides in my friend, Jo. How is this possible?

And besides some of the obvious facts, there were many other similarities that made them alike, even down to the exact, same, complicated eye color. I told myself that if I didn't finish this book, then I was a literal idiot. God had somehow allowed me to spend the entire summer with my book character, and if I didn't use those experiences, I'd just be wasting myself. (God's gift, huh?)

So here I am, about two months later and about three hours into writing this, swearing to whoever is reading this, and to the world, that I will finish this book, this year, by December. I will do whatever it takes--even if that means writing one thousand words each week. EVEN if that means that I have to sacrifice sleep, chocolate, and boys. 

It will be done. This is a promise. 

To conclude this very long, drastic and dramatic blog post, I will sign my name in blood (not really, that's completely impossible.) 

Here goes:

I solemnly swear to abide by all promises listed above--yes, even the one about giving up boys,

Britney S. Lewis

Music and Writing

After receiving some encouraging words, and a little heartache, I'm back at it again--I'm writing!

There is hope for this book to see the end.

The advice my writing friends gave me summed up to this: Just write something, even if you don't like it. 

So I did, for awhile, and they were right--the juices came back. 

But anyway, today's blog post is about music and writing. 

I noticed that I am substantially inspired by music when it comes to my writing. Anything with an acoustic guitar, minors, and a voice with soul, seems to pull all the great words and scenes out of me. 

I don't know what it does to me, but it makes me feel . . . . it makes me feel a lot. So much so that I have to listen to that song over and over again so that I can create those feelings. 

This new book I'm writing, I think I'll call it Rubatosis, retains most of it's scenes from songs that have inspired me. I had a friend ask me the other day, "How do you translate a song into a scene?"

Here's my response: You have to take the essence of it--the throbbing, the tempo, the chords--force it into your heart, and translate those words into scenes.

So this is what I've been doing. 

Most of the music I've been listening to has been written or covered. I've also been listening to a lot of Ray LaMontagne and Ed Sheran a whole heck of a lot. 

There are two songs, in particular, that got me through writing as well. 

Never Think

Let Me Sign

Well, that's it for this post! I hope some of this music makes you inspired as well! 

What do you listen to to promote inspiration? 

In my next blog post, I'll be talking more about Rubatosis, and hopefully, I can finish up some series: How Writers Made It Big, and Writing in the Twenty-First Century. 

Till Next Time!

Friday Blues and A Mix of Tea

Not exactly sure why I titled this "Friday Blues".

Today is anything but sad. ( . . . For the most part. We won't get into my irrational highs and lows. I'll save that for the other blog.)

It's been one hell of a month, though, and I can't express how enthused I am to be sitting on my couch, computer on my lap, watching black and white television, and WRITING!

Gee, it's been so long, and no one had the nerve to say, "Hey, if you don't write for a month, you'll lose your soul!" So imagine the tugging on my heart from the lack of words, and the separation of all-things-light inside of me.

Don't say I didn't tell you so!

Okay, but beside all that, the distance from my laptop has actually been a great thing--believe it or not.

I've actually come up with a new series for ya'll! (No worries, I'll still be continuing the series on How Writers Made it Big.)

I think you all will take liking to this one: It's a series on how to get published in the twenty-first century--something I wish I could find on the web.

How are you going to write this, considering you're not published, you might ask?

Simple: I read!

Okay, so there's this awesome book, written by a literary agent, who gives all these tips on how to get published. Along with that, I'll give you my personal experience on each tip and what I think about it. (Trust me, I've read this book twice.) It's quite interesting, and it held my attention, so I trust it will hold yours also.

That's it for today's post. I will now enjoy my Green/Orange tea and work on my manuscript for this new book.

Till next time Blog World,

Here's An Idea: Write The Synopsis First!

Say What?

So it's spring break for me, and I've already written three chapters of a new book--that's a lot considering the week isn't even over yet . . .

How? You might ask.

I wrote the synopsis first.

Obviously, this isn't a new thing. Writers have been doing this for centuries (possibly). And though I've known of this advice, I never considered it because, seriously, who wants to write a synopsis at all?

But in this case, it's done me good. My schedule this semester is quite hectic (Er, you've might've notice from the lack of posts) and I haven't been able to write as much as I hoped. But creating a synopsis helped a lot.

Here's why: 


-It's Fast:

Once I got the hang of it, it was easy for me to plan out what I wanted every chapter to look like. So I started with one sentence per chapter and eventually expanded to a paragraph. When I finished, it looked kind of like a Sparknotes layout.

-It helps with the essential theme of the story:

It's always solid to have a good theme that circles throughout the process of the story. It's easy to do that when you can see the main concepts of each chapter on one to two pages.

-Character progression comes easier:

In this book, my main character grows quite a bit. It's nice to plan out his breaking points and the areas that are most essential to him. That way, its easier for me to have the MC reflect on those events later in the story.



Those are the pros I've acquired thus far. The con would be actually writing the synopsis . . . that's the hardest part.

Has anyone else had any luck with writing their synopsis first? I'd love to hear about it. Post your comments below!


Till Next Time,

Writing In Times of Sorrow

It seems as if I've fallen off the face of the planet. 

It's probably true.

On January first, a friend of mine died in a tragic car crash.

When I found out, it felt like the universe had been sucked from it's oxygen, and I couldn't breathe.

Because even doing that hurt.

At some point, I decided to write. I decided I would take my pain and put it into words. But it wasn't as easy as I thought it might be. It took me a week to even write this post.

All my hipster friends were writing about it the day after they found out, and I absolutely could not. I wanted it to feel right, but it felt weird. How could I do something I loved, when someone I loved was gone?

My friend was a writer, too. We weren't super close, and this year, our paths had kind of split into two, but when it came to writing, it was almost like we were the closest of friends. Writing does that to people. It compels you to start an estranged friendship. And she wasn't into the big wigs, nor did she want to get a book published. But she was the in-the-closet, really-good, sultry, hard-core-love-song, kind of writer. And that made her ten times the woman than she already was.

She was actually reading one of my books (though the book she was reading was crap, and I don't blame her for never getting around to finishing it,) but I realized that, even in times of triumphs and chaos, I could write. I was given that. She wanted to read my book because she wanted to help me make it better. She believed in me, and the fact that I was even pursuing my dream meant a lot to her.

She inspired me to continue writing that third/fourth book I always give up on. (And trust me, I always give up on it.)

This whole death thing is weird, but somehow . . . somehow, there's goodness in all of it. While our clocks still tick, it's easy to forget the things that we're passionate about. It's so easy to forget the moments and words that make our hearts stop beating for a millisecond.

And when her clock ran out, she reminded me of how precious my time here really was. She reminded me why I was passionate about writing. She reminded me that many good things can actually form from dust.

So though her body is gone, her soul is still alive, and because of her I have a damn-good, sultry, hard-core, love story.

Thank you, Q.

The Time Boat

"Writing takes time," said I after beating myself up for the millionth time.

Because for some reason I feel like I should write a book in three months. Get it published within a year, and see my name in lights within two.

No doubt about it, these are unrealistic expectations.

But I've seen writers do it! I've seen so many talented people jump out of the time boat and into reality.

I've seen their names in lights, on billboards, and in screens.

They've done it. I've even written about it here on my blog. But what about me? What's my problem, and why am I stuck on this boat where the water never ends, I'm sea sick, and the only way out is under?

I get inspired and I write, and write, and write, until nothing. I'm drained.

My good words, the voices in my head, it mutes at once. Something must be wrong with me, I think.

And then I edit, erase, and rewrite. And I edit, erase, and rewrite. And I'm stuck. I'm STUCK.

I can't get off the freaking boat. My words are my worst enemy. They keep me where they want me. They sink me.

But . . . not really. I'm still afloat. In this time boat.

And in my moment of frustration, at the sweat of my brow, I realize something grand: real writing takes time. 

I mean, hello, I'm at sea. Each time the sun rises and sets it inspires me. That fireball in the sky gives life. It breaths words into my insides, and I'm able to write.

And when I write, it's euphoric.

It's tingly, and warm, and filling.

I savor those words in my mouth, for every little bit counts. And I want more. I want SO MUCH more! And I binge on every single word.

I feel. My words let me feel.

It is, indeed, my best high.

Yes. I'm addicted. "I'm addicted," I say.

Perhaps, that's why I can't leave this time boat anyway . . .


The time it took to write this: I lost track after an hour.

I think I'll go get some tea now.

Happy New Year!

The Writing Life (Take Two!)

Coming into this life, I expected it to be easy, somewhat.

But clearly, I was fooled.

It's been almost a year since I began blogging and almost four years since I began writing seriously. (You know, with the hopes of being published someday.)

And it's not even about wanting to get published--that's a simple perk of being a writer--it's about connecting with other writers, with readers. It's about living in a world where people understand you. A world where when you say, "I think I have carpal tunnel," they don't look at you like you're crazy. It's about being invested in a community, like this one, where other writers welcome you with GIF hugs and emojis.  A world where they send you so many emails about their book that you think it's spam. But mostly, a world where they not only want to be invested in you, but in your characters, in your writing.....that's the best feeling.

So here I stand with a heart full of words and a mind filled with stuff about writing. Like I said before, I will either succeed or fail miserably in this realm. But for us, for me, for my words, I believe that I will make it far in this life someday. I might even own my own literary agency . . . ha . . . now would be the time for me to come off that high horse.

But if, and when I do publish my first book through some hardcore agent who believes in me, I want to remember you, all of you who read this.

I propose that the first fifteen people who email me with the sentence, "we are a community" will receive a signed, hard-back book from yours truly. That's a promise. Maybe that doesn't mean much to you, but it means everything to me. You all are my people--we're a community--and I want to give back.

Till then, I'll be working hard on this third book with community in mind. I'll be looking into Carpal Tunnel because, yeah, this pain is real. And I'll be diving deep into this writer's life with high hopes.

Look forward to the next post because I'm going to continue the series, "How Writer's Made It Big!" This time, we'll be looking into how Veronica Roth corrupted 2014 with her Divergent series. You don't want to miss this one!


Till next time blog world,

OH, and somehow I managed to make it on a cover of a magazine. Who would have thunk it?

Throwing The Manuscript Away

Not literally. I didn't have it printed yet.
But virtually, yes . . . yes I did.

Below, I've inserted a clear visual of what sort of happened . . . .

Now, allow me to let you in on a few things that led to the fall...

1.) That one book I told ya'll I was working on (you know the one that was going to be a series?) I probably haven't worked on that since April.

2.)  I managed to get two new jobs.

3.) I fell in love . . . ha, just kidding.

4.) I've been watching a lot of TV shows on Netflix. (Supernatural, Scandal...)

5.) And also, I have two nephews. That's enough to make me quit just about anything.

I'd like to believe that it was a mixture of these things that made me realize that what I was writing wasn't appealing to me.

In fact, I kept asking myself, "What if no one likes this? Who am I trying to portray...and really, Britney, do you think that's a good idea?"

I know I can be hard on myself--I am truly my own worst enemy--but if I'm psyched about a book idea, I take it and run until it's finished.

So this summer when I began a new manuscript for a different story, I was pumped . . . at first. It happened slowly, and then all at once, like a rush of water. Then I wasn't excited about it anymore.

I couldn't write.

Naturally, I thought it was writer's block. But after a few months of letting it sit, I quickly realized that it wasn't that. This manuscript was more like a diary, so it was easier to write. I wrote about 30,000 words total--20,000 shy from a novella.

I had a game plan--I wanted to get it finished--but, I wasn't in love with it.

There was no spark.

The characters made me smile, but the story-line was saddening.

So I deleted it. Crazy, right?

Okay, okay. I didn't actually "delete" the story, I still have the rough outline. But, from that outline, I found a story within a story, still allowing me to use the characters I love.

Basically, what I'm getting at here is that there are benefits from starting over. Obviously, starting over from scratch is a bit drastic, but if it works, it works--and it worked for me.

Maybe you could benefit from deleting your manuscript, too? As Hemingway once said, "The first draft of anything is...." fill in the blank.

(Hint: a four letter word that rhymes with kick...)

I hope all is well.

Ha, till next time blog world!

Over and out.

Cough Medicine, Writer's Block, and A Silver Lining

So, it's one am my time, I'm doped up on cough medicine, and I can't sleep.

My Current State of Confusion...

I can't stop thinking about writing.

I guess I've never questioned myself this much before.

The theme for my new manuscript keeps changing, and I can't figure out who my characters are anymore, or who they're supposed to be. It's like questioning my own identity.

Where do I go from here? Do I just pick up the pieces and move on, am I experiencing writer's block or side effects from this cough medicine?

And should I be querying my other manuscript while I'm writing? What do I do at a time like this besides wait?

I feel like I'm always waiting--waiting on words, waiting on feedback, waiting on agents, waiting for this commercial to end....

And I can't stop thinking about that movie I just watched (for like the millionth time,) A Silver Lining's Playbook. If you like crazy people, love stories, football, and writing, this movie is for you, hands down.

Well anyway, one of the main characters, Tiffany, goes off on one of her crazy moments...inserts gif...

And sometimes I feel that way after I write, like somehow my own words are betraying me by not giving me anything else to say . . . like they're judging me. It seems irreversible.

It's like, how the heck am I supposed to finish this chapter if my brain doesn't work the way I want it to?

Why are my main characters so complicated, and why is the word excelsior still stuck in my head?

And now, I'm going wayy too deep. I think that night time medicine is setting in.

On a more serious note, does anyone have any advice about writer's block? Is this normal, the way I feel?
And seriously, check out this movie, or even the book, it's my favorite.

Till next time, ya'll!

Happy Writing Days!

Three Reasons Why You Shouldn't Stop Reading

While in the writing process, I find it hard to finish--or even pick up--a book. (I have this fear of accidentally imitating someone else's work.)

That's the last thing I want to do. No one deserves to be plagiarized.

But at the same time, one of the best ways to improve your writing skill is to read.

Note the difference: Reading is observing, and you gain so much knowledge in the process.

My goal for today's post is to give you THREE reasons why you shouldn't stop reading while you're working on your manuscript.

1.  INSIGHT: If you're into writing YA novels like I am, the first noticeable difference is the voice of the  main character. Unlike other genres, young adults are on two extreme scales: completely mainstream or not mainstream at all (i.e hipsters, trendsetters, ect.) And if you've grown past your young adult years, there's a slight chance that you've already forgotten what that "version" of yourself sounds like. Even I, in my early, early, twenties, forget what I sound like. This is where the reading process comes in. Honestly, reading anything that's been published in the last six years is still quiet relevant to that YA group today. It's important to take note on today's slang and phrases because there are some words that aren't used anymore. Like: "All that and a bag of chips" and "Talk to the hand" are overused phases that were relevant in the 20th century, not so much in the 21st.

2. VISION: Where do you get your story ideas? I get mine from songs, dreams, reality, and books! I noticed that certain scenes in books have the power to spark an entire manuscript. Getting insight from many different books helps with the story-flowing process. Sometimes it's a never-ending stream of words, and sometimes it's just a simple idea. Eiter way, it's something. So pick up an intriguing book that really gets the juices flowing.

3. ACTION: I've noticed that whenever I pick up a good book, I get so motivated to finish my own book that I never get a chance to finish the page I'm on. Truth: reading a bestseller sparks motivation! I'm living proof of that, and so are the many books scattered across my desk with dog ears in them. Even self-help books get me excited to finish my own. I always get that sense of urgency: Who knows, I could be writing that next top-charter?!?! 
I'm telling you, reading books guarentee's a bestseller . . . . . ha, totally kidding.


But don't knock the reading process. Without it, you may gain less insight, lack a clear vision, and become unmotivated.

Books are the trendsetters, so challenge yourself to be just that.



Till Next Time Blog World!

Writing Styles

This GIF, in a nutshell, is how I'd describe my writing style. 

Obviously, the older I get and the more experience I gain, my writing style differs. That's just life.

It's no secret, I want to be as original as I can. There's this "stuff" that has been created in me, and then it is somehow used to create the sentences I pour into my pages. I think that "stuff" is apart of everyone, and that's what makes them different, unique. Because I am such an emotional person, my writing tends to lean toward the emotional side. My goal is to paint a visual picture of "feelings" with words. I want the reader to feel every moment that the character feels. To me, they need to connect on that level--whether that be depression, falling in love, anxiety, or fear.  I believe that if there is no initial connection, I'd lose the reader.

When it comes to influences, I'm very inspired by other author's writing styles. With my new manuscript, I've been feeling really influenced by Ernest Hemingway (which you've probably noticed if you follow me on twitter.) If you've read anything from him, you'd see that his writing is somewhat direct and to the point. (Almost polar opposite from me.) At the same time, though, he can be very detailed with particular moments and scenes. It is truly the simpleness that gets me.

I'm also inspired by music and song lyrics. There are so many songs when I'm just like, "I want my book to portray this exact song. Ah!!!"
I want to somehow write the tempo and the chords in without actually writing it in.
I don't know, songs just touch me in this indescribable way, and I want my reader to experience the same feeling, too.

If I'm referring back to the GIF I used above, that's how I want to feel after I write a sentence in my book...
Not kidding.
If I'm not feeling the sentence, I'll cut it and rewrite it. I want each sentence to make me feel like that GIF--even if I am asking a lot from myself, it's completely worth it. Every sentence is meaningful, and it comes together to create this outstanding story, and I want it all to be beautiful...

Like I've said in my bio: "My words will tug away the strings of your heart." 

Till next time blog world, 

Hasta la vista! 

My Place

A late Throwback Thursday Edition. 

I blog a lot about writing. Yet, none of you have actually seen any of my pieces. I'm not able to do that yet--you know, copyright stuff--so today I'm sharing the closest thing to it, and English Paper of mine.

Not just any ol' paper, though, but a creative essay. 

I wrote it about a year ago, and it's one of my favorite homework assignments so far. 

I hope you Enjoy it! 

My Place

            No one knew it—not even the creators—but this white, four-door, Ford Taurus had become my sanctuary.

            The interior of the car carries all of my prayers, safely tucking them inside its cracks like the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. My heart has been splattered across the grey, suede seats, leaving parts of me in every crevice.

            The best thing about my car, though, is the freedom it grants my imagination. While I drive, my mind spirals out of control. It rushes to a place within me, a place unlike any other. As Carl Sagan once said, “Imagination will carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere.”

            One would find my imaginative place, in the deepest, greenest forest amongst a clearing. Inside, the sweet smell of lilies, dandelions, and daises sting my nostrils. The field is filled with endless, blossoming flowers, and the rabbits play in them, resting frequently as they hop with their loved ones. The clearing is no bigger than a football field in length, but the tall trees around it give the false appearance of a perfect circle. An outsider would think of it as a globe, separating the external world from the internal world completely. 

            The air is thinner here, and the wind blows softly, tangling the ends of my hair from time to time, cooling me off when my body temperature rises from wonder. I am distracted often—there’s a wide variety of life creeping around my clearing, and I strive to see it all because the more I see, the more I know, and the more I know, the more I feel like I’m apart of them.  

            In the center of the clearing lies a small creek. The water doesn’t flow any higher than my ankles, and it’s about as wide as an old row boat—from front to back—filled with many rocks—different shapes and sizes. The atmosphere is louder near the creek. Mosquitos fly about, frogs croak with fierce, and locusts sing their highest, humming perfect notes in order to find their soul mates.

            In the distance, toward the end of the clearing, is an old, wooden house. The wooden pieces and logs that once held it together are now falling apart. They are chipped and worn at the edges and sides, and termites have claimed a permanent home inside of them. The glass windows are discolored and have all been broken. The entire shack leans to one side, holding onto the little confidence it has left. If it weren’t for the thick trumpet vines holding it together, the bruised house would have long dissolved into the earth by now.  Though the house is a part of my secret place, I don’t dare go near it—some things are better left untouched.

            As the sun glistens the grass and sparkles the water—filling the creek with endless, rapturing diamonds—I am reminded of the Prayer of Peace by St. Frances, “Lord make me an instrument of thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is error, the truth; where there is doubt, the faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy.” It’s these sweet moments, in my place, where I feel so much of God’s glory—where I feel so much love.

But in my infinitesimal place, through the thick trees, he is there, and he is what makes this clearing so much better than it already is. He doesn’t know how great he is, but he’s here, in my place, as glorious as God could create him to be.

He sits on the ground, across the creek, and I jog faintly toward him, squishing my tiny toes through the soft grass, and splashing my feet through the cool water.

When I make it over, I sit next to him and study the gratitude written in the lines of his solemn, pale face. His blue eyes lock onto my brown ones, and they squint momentarily as the sun rays bounce off his short eyelashes. His lips fall slightly parted below his narrow nose, and nothing, not even a whisper, slips from his tongue. He’s a brave one, I can see it in his brows, and I pray to carry the same badge as he does—I hope to be a warrior someday, too. But in our stillness—in my sacred place—he continues without a word, leading my imagination further than my heart can wander, leading me across stretches of the world that my feet could never fathom going. 

Still at rest, I study him as he studies me—I’ve never seen him so close before. His dirty blonde hair, long and curly, rests a bit past his shoulders, and he smiles at me with his eyes. I wonder what he’s thinking; I wonder what’s going through that silent mind of his. There’s this passage in Looking for Alaska, by John Green, that says, “Just remember that sometimes the way you think about a person isn’t the way they actually are.” For a moment, before I could contemplate reality, I hoped he wasn’t thinking of me that way; I hoped he wasn’t thinking of me in a way that couldn’t uphold possible human standards; I hoped he wasn’t thinking of me and realizing that I wasn’t who he thought I would be. Worse than that, I found myself thinking of him in the same way that I had thought of my secret place—fictional. It was possible that we both had high expectations for each other, but I hoped we were more than that; I hoped we could grow into something wonderful because in my consecrated place anything was possible—there were no limits.  

            Now, whenever I drive, I take my time. Life is too short to ignore the beauty inside of me because in my meadow, my little clearing, I come alive. It isn’t a place of regret, disappointment, or sadness; my place isn’t a place where hope is without light. My place is absolute, and I can run without borders; I can be whoever I want to be because I am free here—no judgments, no filters. My place is full of restless thoughts, harmonic birds with enduring tunes and delicate winds that help the lilies grow. My place is like a dream, but better. It’s the same place that lullabies are made of; it’s a place where people run to escape reality. My place isn’t a place that disguises actuality. My place is different than any other—it’s within me.   

(c) 2014 Britney Lewis