Some writers I know have been discussing how unfair it is that more and more editors and agents are not responding to queries or manuscript submissions. That is, if the writer doesn’t hear back, you are to assume that the publisher or agent is not interested in your submission. If the editor does want to read more or make an offer, or if the agent is interested in representing you, of course, they do contact you, although there might be a long wait first.

The writers feel this is unprofessional and, as I noted, unfair. The editors and agents usually note that they regret this necessity, but they are receiving more and more submissions and simply do not have the time and perhaps lack the staff to send out rejections for each one.

I can see both sides of this. I can’t help remembering my husband telling the kids when they were younger, “Who said life is fair?” when they made the same complaint over some household rule. And goodness knows the old form rejections were not satisfying. “Tell me what you don’t like,” we wanted to scream, when we got the meaningless: “This does not meet our needs at the current time.” Most published writers remember the immense relief when we finally graduated to a “good” rejection when the editor scrawled something specific on the rejection letter.

I know most editors are hard-working people who wish they could do more for hopeful writers. They often read queries or ms. on the subway home or while they eat a hurried lunch at their desks. And I’ve seen their desks–overflowing with paper, even in these computer driven days! They’re not out there plotting to make us miserable.

And yet, it’s more than frustrating for us writers. Time is what writers also don’t have, what writers snatch out of hours and minutes of their days and nights.  I remember well trying to write after a full day at work, after coming home to throw together dinner, get kids through homework and baths and bedtimes.  I remember going to sleep with a pad of paper in my lap–the original laptop! So what can we do? No magic answers, I’m afraid. Keep writing, keep sharpening skills, most of all, just keep on keeping on. Go to conferences for greater access to editors and agents, and as Winston Churchill famously said, never, never give up! Talent, hard work, determination, the same answers as always, are the ones that will- sooner or later–and sadly, it’s most often later than we wish–carry us through. Mostly, don’t give up!

And of course, there are more avenues today than traditional publishing, but that’s a whole other column. : )

I am Queen of the cliche’. I worked in advertising as a Copywriter and Creative Director.  Using snappy sayings and refurbishing cliche’s was a big part of the business, so I am always tempted to use them.  My writers group also knows that I am very good at spotting those sneaky ones and most often suggest rephrasing the line.

But what exactly makes a phrase a cliche’ you ask?

It’s very simple, over-use. In the beginning the expression was probably regarded as clever and unique—so much so that it started getting repeated, and just like the Faberge shampoo commercial …I told to friends about it, and they told to friends and so on and so on and so on! The phrase took on a life of it’s own loosing it’s originality and depth of meaning.  In the words of  French poet Gerard de Nerval: “The first man who compared a woman to a rose was a poet, the second, an imbecile.”

 So why shouldn’t you use cliche’s?

They are no longer interesting or very effective, and of course, they show a lack of originality. Of course ,sometimes they work in dialogue or in special circumstances but, generally your unique descriptions will have far stronger effect on your reader.

 Is it easy to fix cliche’s?

Once you have identified a cliche’ try to change it so your reader will feel what you are trying to express. A thesaurus can help. Look up the action words and try to replace them. Dive into your characters head and choose words she would use from her environment and sense of the world.

 Example:

Cliche’: She avoided Anna like the plague

Instead: She stepped off the path every time she saw Anna coming; the blackberry thorns were a better friend.

 Are you up to the Challenge?

Now you know how to avoid them, let’s have a little fun. Do you have a few favorite cliche’s? Here are a few of mine strung together.

Cliche’s are about as useful as a lead balloon. They bug the heck out of me, so don’t be all talk and no action.You may have to work like a horse to weed them out of your writing, but at the end of the day when the eraser dust has  settled, it was all in a writing days work!

(I showed you mine, now you show me yours.)

I always thought that someday I would write the Great American Novel.   At the time I decided this I was reading JOHNNY TREMAIN, which I loved.  What I hadn’t decided in the third grade was…should it be about history (next to reading, my favorite subject) or about my daddy.  I loved reading historical books, but I loved my daddy more.  One thing I knew I would never write about was me.  Look how long I’d already lived and nothing wonderful or interesting had happened to me yet.  While I waited for something to happen, so I could write about it, I worked in the movie studios, met a gazillion great actors, rode on a fire truck, and went to school.

I took violin at the Los Angeles Academy of Musical Arts—I was not going to be the next Itzhak Pearlman.  Mommy and I rode the Red Line Streetcar.   My auntie Mimi came with sometimes.  One time I fell getting off the streetcar and slipped down the gutter drain.  Auntie Mimi saved me from disaster by grabbing my long curls and yanking me out.

I took tap dancing from Willie Cohan–Anne Miller was safe, no Music City Rockettes in my future.  I can still do a ball shuffle…but that’s all I can do (then and now).

I often went with my daddy to his fire station and hung out with the firemen he worked with.  I sat in the fire truck and read, made ice cream with the cook (my talented chef daddy, Jack), and watched black and white tv from the old theater seats that had been donated to the station, Palms 43, Los Angeles, California. Sometimes my daddy and I went across the street from the station to the Tootsie Roll factory and got a crate of candy for the firehouse to give out to visiting kids.  Believe me, I ate more than my share.

I took Piano—not a Hogie Charmichael, either.  Not even a Snoopy.  My mom got a note from my teacher thanking Mom for letting me quit.

I took ballet from Nico Charrise—no “Silk Stockings” lead dancer name Syd.  No tip and toeing through life for me.  The first day I tried toe…I broke one.  I can still feel Nico lightly hitting the back of my legs with his stick and yelling, “Right-right-right! And no back-knee, Stefff-fanny!”

After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting for something to write about, my indecision began to bug me.  Did we say “bug” in the 40s?  Then in the 6^th grade, as part of the art committee for our Simon Bolivar presentation, I made most of the slides.  My portrait of Sen᷉or Bolivar was great, fantastic, and got me a big fat A+.  A light went on.  Why wait for something to write the Great American novel about…I would paint the Great American painting.  I had seen Grandma Moses’ pictures, and people thought she was amazing.  I wasn’t all that impressed.  I could do better.  So, what did I want to paint about?  I sat down to wait for an inspiration.

I entered the Miss La Ballona Creek Beauty Pagent—chubby, pig tails, tone deaf—what was I thinking?  “Do you have a talent, dear?”  Let me think…  Violin, tap, ballet, piano, singing, whistling, wood burning….  “Reading!”

I moved back to LA and got a 9^th grade boyfriend—but I doubt any other girl wanted him.  For a long time (last 1/2 of the A9),I was in Jr. Hi Love Land…That’s Disneyland with hand holding and a little lip touching.  Then we went to Hi School…  Love and heartbreak followed me!

While I was still waiting to become a better painter than my little brother, Stevie (the commercial artist), I went to College, fell in love twice, my one true love was killed, taught school, got married, lost my daddy, had three children and seven Grandchildren, studied children’s book writing, found my life-long writing partner, became an author and editor, put a ton of get-up-and-go into SCBWI, lectured and taught writing for young people, wrote a tv series, edited a kid’s magazine, met my true soul sisters, lost my mama, Sylvia, divorced, became religious, got published in every genre for children I can name, and gave up my non-starter art career.

AND, I still can’t decide what my Great American Novel will be about.  History?  My daddy?  My mama?  Certainly not an autobiography.  In all these years, what have I done that anyone would want to read about?

If you get the message…  Start taking notes NOW!

IN THE BEGINNING… (no, not that beginning)

In the beginning there were two writers who became friends (with no idea of what the future held for them…yes, I know that is foreshadowing).   They were at the Writer’s Conference given by SCBW in Santa Monica, CA, all wide-eyed and overwhelmed.  The speaker they were listening to was so famous, so respected in his field that the two friends were rapidly writing down every word the speaker said.  After all, he was the renowned children’s book writer, Sid Fleishman. And they, Stephanie and Judy, were conference newbies (of absolutely no renown).

That day we, the newbies, learned two very important things from Sid (who would become a dear friend) that have served us well throughout our careers.  One: If we ever got a contract it would be so terrible that Sid would never sign it.  And two: Never throw away good words and ideas—put them in a doggie bag.

THE BOOK…

Not much later, when we, Stephanie and Judy—now writing partners, were contracted for the Scholastic YA Sunfire series and asked to set our first historical novel at the time of the San Francisco earthquake and fire. We were excited.  Much of Old San Francisco was still there, alive and well. There was an Earthquake Room in the Main Library downtown packed with facts and pictures and old newspapers on microfilm.  The turn of the century mansions, that had survived earthquake and fire, were still there, so lovely, and the cable cars still ran on their original routes.   San Francisco was (and is) an historical writer’s died-and-gone-to-heaven.  There were newspaper stories of Enrico Caruso’s short stay and quick get-away, swearing never to return to such a dangerous place—and he never did.  Were we especially proud of finding an article about a little dog that survived the earthquake and fire in the basement of the St. Francis Hotel.  Francis the dog lived the rest of life at the hotel.

Practically skipping to the post office we sent NORA to our editor (it was her mother’s name).  This is what her editorial letter to us said, “KILL THE DOG!”

We were desolate, but Francis was no longer a part of our book.  We loved him…  He was so funny and cute…  Oh Francis we have been undone!

And then a little voice said, “Do not despair Stephanie, Judy, and little Francis.  Remember… Sid’s doggy bag!”

And in went Francis head first.  And there he stayed until…

AN IDEA!…

One day we remembered our fabulous trip to San Francisco and began to reminisce.  We knew so much historical stuff about the city, why not write a book about it?

“FRANCIS!”

Not a book about San Francisco—A BOOK ABOUT FRANCIS! And we will call it…

FRANCIS THE EARTHQUAKE DOG

And out of that doggy bag that Sid told us to keep came Francis and his picture book that was sold all over San Francisco, bookstores, bakeries, candy stores, souvenir shops and the St. Francis Hotel.  On Francis’ fifth anniversary the St. Francis Hotel commissioned a stuffed dog to accompany our book.  Amazing!  All that because we heard Sid Fleishman speak, kept a doggy bag, and killed the dog!

This is definitely a case of the tale wagging the dog!