The do’s and don’t's of submitting a manuscript
Non-profit life is meeting after meeting, let me tell you. On top of weekly staff meetings, there are intern-specific meetings that I attend monthly just to touch base on oh, let’s see, EVERYTHING UNDER THE SUN. Both past and present interns are encouraged to come, so it seems like every meeting there is someone new to the group. This means that we have to go ‘round in a circle and introduce ourselves over and over AND OVER again. Did I ever tell you this was my least favorite part about the first day of school? In college I’d often check in with the teacher and then ditch class in favor of the on campus pub, just so I wouldn’t have to sit there and tell everyone who I was and what I was all about. I don’t mind it so much now though because I get to say, “My name is Chelsi and I’m a hybrid intern.” The program director called me his hybrid intern a few weeks ago because I’ve been helping out with both the literary and the gallery stuff, which given that I majored in both Wrting and Art History, is pretty much perfect and awesome. And I like letting everyone know that. Ha.
This week I processed applications for our annual literary awards and I wanted to share with you how much I seriously loved doing it in spite of how tedious and annoying of an experience it was, but I feel like I might type my fingers off, so instead I’m going to list a bunch of things you shouldn’t do when submitting a manuscript. Hopefully it’ll steer at least some of you guys away from being either pompous or disorganized:
-If the rules state a clear age limit, like, for example, thirty-five, and you are thirty-six, DO NOT SUBMIT. It breaks my heart to have to call you and say, Hi. You’re too old for this competition. Try again never.
-If the maximum number of pages allowed is forty, DO NOT SUBMIT MORE THAN FORTY. You’ll be rejected, even if it’s only one page over. You have to think of it like this: the average number of judges on a panel is three, and the average number of manuscripts that smaller awards receive is around one hundred and eighty, and most submissions are either the maximum allowed length or just under it, so that’s at least 6,300 pages the underpaid judges have to read. And if you get a wild hair up your ass and type beyond what’s stated in the guidelines, it makes it look like you think you’re beyond the rules, and at that point you can go ahead and yank that wild hair out of your butt and thank it for getting you a one way express trip to the rejection pile.
-If it’s requested that you do NOT include your name on the manuscript, DO NOT INCLUDE YOUR NAME ON THE MANUSCRIPT. People like me who process them will record your name and submission title from the signed application that you mail in, so don’t think that if you don’t include your name on every single page of your manuscript there’s a chance it’ll get picked it as the winner but then dismissed because no one will remember who wrote it. It’s under control, ok? In fact, I highly encourage submitting work to blind reads. That way if there’s a neurotic judge on the panel (like me) who in her personal life dismisses potential love interests because their first or last name is weird (yes, I know I have serious problems), that deep-seated issue won’t carry over into her judging. Likewise, you’ll be able to sleep at night because the kids who spend days coming up with the perfectly catchy pen name won’t be rewarded for it. In a blind read, the most deserving person, whether or not his or her name is Gladys Bobafet Eugenia Muhkergee, will win.
-Think about how your manuscript is going to look when it’s pulled out of its envelope:
If you had a hard time stapling it all together, chances are by the time it’s gone through the mail system and landed on a desk in front of a processor, that that processor is going to pull out a bunch of loose sheets of paper and get stabbed by an unruly staple. If you’re one of those people that absolutely have to submit the maximum number of allowed pages, introduce yourself to the wonderful world of binder clips. They are cute an inexpensive, can handle a large number of pages and most importantly, do not have any sharp angles or edges. In that same vein, just because the rules state a maximum number of allowed pages doesn’t mean you have to submit that many. If you have a short story that you’ve worked on for years and it’s final page count is half as many as the maximum for a competition, submit it anyway. It’s about quality, not quantity, and chances are the judges will pick up your manuscript, notice immediately that it isn’t an outrageous beast with staples and or too-small paper clips popping out of it from every direction, and they’ll smile and send a silent thank you to the author. Isn’t that a good way to start a read? Additionally, please don’t think that your manuscript will be considered any more than the next if you print it on some fancy kind of paper. Regular printer paper is the best way to go because it’s light, it’s easy to flip through, it isn’t textured-- it’s just some freakin’ paper. If you feel the need to go to some paper supply store and spend a ridiculous amount of money on the printer paper equivalent of Renova luxury colored and quilted toilet paper, then whoever receives your story might just mentally wipe their ass with it.
-Include a (SHORT) cover letter. It’s just polite.
- Most importantly, SUBMIT. Even if it’s messy, so long as you follow the rules, it’s going to get read. And hey, it just might win. But definitely not if it’s sitting there under your bed or in a random file on your hard drive.
Never been more sure
I entered my college institution as a declared Interior Design major. Can you believe that shit? Now I understand that the satisfaction I get from decorating and splashing colors on walls goes only as far as my own personal space, and that no amount of money could make me enjoy, let alone love, having to adhere to other people’s tastes, but back then I just really wanted to be on Trading Spaces. After two and a half grueling years of General Ed I took Drafting 101, my first official ID class. Four months later, after having to study the the weight of pencil lead like my knowledge of it could determine whether or not I get to go to Heaven, and paying an arm and a leg for supplies like vellum (a.k.a. really expensive tracing paper), I quit.
I quit, I quit, I quit. And not even because of the fact that I didn’t like drafting or because I felt the cost of supplies was ridiculous; all of those things were actually expected. It was the attitude that I found in the classrooms and most unfortunately, even among the teachers themselves, that wasn’t. Being an ID major in San Francisco is exactly what I imagine being behind the scenes of Project Runway is like: a bitch fest. Everyone talks shit, most are only out to help themselves, nobody really cares whose toes they have to step on on the way, and girls wake up at six fucking AM just so they have enough time to shower before they do their hair and try on sixteen different outfits like class is some motherfucking Miss America pageant. The saddest part? It is. My own personal experience with interior design taught me that if you’re a guy and you’re not super flamboyantly gay in your v-neck t-shirts, cowboy boots and Chanel sunglasses, or if you’re a girl that’s not a total heinous bitch with amazing hair, perfectly manicured nails and a purse that cost you more than a month’s rent, nobody will look twice at you. It is very sad, especially for people like me who carry their belongings in twelve dollar zebra-striped duffle bags from H&M, or two dollar reusable shopping bags from Trader Joe’s, and wear Converse sneakers on almost a daily basis and have hair that fluffs up to nearly impossible heights at the slightest hint of humidity.
When I left that world behind I turned back to writing, something I’ve been doing since I was seven when I wrote my first (and thus far only) novella. It was about mermaids. I was and am still very happy with that choice. I believe that I was born to write, and it’s a skill that I will never tire of developing. Even now, when I read old posts from websites I used to have, I can see how much being an English major has improved my writing and I’m thrilled by it. However, halfway through my junior year of college I realized how much I missed visual creative works, so just before the semester ended I declared Art History as my secondary major. To my father this translated into: hey dad, I need a few [thousand] more dollars from you so I can add another non-lucrative degree to my collection. Needless to say he was not pleased, and it took a lot out of me to try and squeeze the necessary money out of my family just so I could do what I wanted to do in life.
With all of that in the past yet still weighing down on my shoulders the way parental expectations and choices you make that scare you always will, I began my last year of college hoping I’d find something I could do with my life before it was time to walk across the stage. Then, after what felt like a zillion applications to galleries and internships that I never heard back from (something that's been well documented on this website), I found that something. Or rather, that something found me.
Today I attended my first staff meeting at my internship, which is a highly prolific alternative art space in San Francisco, and acts like a watering hole for both new and established bay area artists of various disciplines. On top of having an awesome gallery, it's a place for playwrights, lit-freaks, music heads, actors, and people who like to shake their jelly on the dance floor like there’s no tomorrow.
I told my ID horror story to a few of the new interns today at the meeting, and to my great surprise one of them burst out laughing because she had the exact same experience at the exact same school with the exact same teachers. I can’t even begin to explain how it felt to bond with someone over something like that. The knowledge that for once in my life I’m not the lone ranger in my decision making process is something that I will treasure forever. When my future spouse calls me crazy for buying ridiculously expensive 5,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets I’m going to say, WELL THERE WAS THIS GIRL AT MY INTERNSHIP BACK IN 2008 WHO LEFT INTERIOR DESIGN FOR ART AND WORDS TOO, SO I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO THINKS THIS WAY. When I get yelled at for shoving dishes with dried beans and egg yolk all over them in the dishwasher? ’08 INTERNSHIP. When I bring that box of twelve abandoned kittens home? You guessed it, INTERNSHIP STORY! Doesn’t matter what it is, having such a specific and life-changing similarity with someone totally justifies any decision I make from here on out.
If interning at my specific establishment has taught me anything in the whole two days I’ve been there, it’s that it’s the perfect place for me. I really needed to be a part of an organization that would allow me to work in all the fields of art that I’ve studied thus far. I didn’t realize it until now, but I’ve never been the kind of person to sacrifice something I love in order to pursue something else that I love just as much. I’m all about immersing myself in every aspect of my eclectic personality, and thankfully, thankfully, thankfully, I’m now a part of a place that’s meant for exactly that. I'm already dreading having to leave when I've only just begun. THAT'S love.
The gods must be crazy
You may have noticed the little link to Blog Catalog down in my ads section on the right sidebar. Blog Catalog is a directory in which bloggers can post discussions, rate other blogs, send messages, comment, etc. I joined the directory a few months ago because, sadly, for the last year or so there have only been one or two sites that have held my interest, and I was hoping to find more blogs to relate to. That, of course, in addition to wanting to expose all of the heavenly glowing light and splendor that is Girls are Strange dot com to the world and thereby increase my traffic to the site. So far it has worked nicely.
Sometimes I’ll run into a rough patch, like when some moderator deletes my thread on kegel exercises, or when a user will privately message me with something like, hi, I’ve added you as a friend so please rate my site and comment. But did that user bother to rate MY website and comment? Did that user even bother to LOOK at my website? No, they didn’t. They’re selfish and all they want to do is promote their own dot com without giving the same respect to the people they’re hoping to gain as fans. And I’m not down with that.
On the bright side, there are a few very honest and good-natured people, like Neil McCartney, who left me a comment this morning that goes something like this:
“I love it, you seem so real, yet so comical. Your writing style [is] so relaxed and informal. First time a blog has drawn me in like that- if I was you and someone asked if I had a website, I would have been proud to tell them about it -it shows an element that people would miss in an interview.”
What a sweet guy, ey? And his highly interesting site, www.neilmccartney.blogspot.com, is a photo log of his adventures as a photo journalist in South Africa, and I strongly recommend you visit it.
It’s comments like this that make me feel like the things I have to write are really worth something, which really means a lot to me, and if I knew Neil in real life I’d call him and I’d say, Thank you Neil for boosting my confidence, and something tells me you’re right about there being an element in me that I should work on exposing more because I GOT THE INTERNSHIP, SON!
I’m still floating around on a cloud of how-the-hell-did-this-happen-I-am-so-fucking-happy, but I’m hoping to come down soon and set up a permanent schedule with The Dream Job.
Sometimes life rocks, but don’t tell it I said so because then my Life Asks section would be kaput.
My Room Smells Like Hot Cow and Carrots
I hope you’re all enjoying the new look of this joint. The color scheme was inspired by my new found love for all things Latin, especially music by Rodrigo y Gabriela, whose acoustic melodies are a mash up of jazz, folk rock, metal and flamenco notes. They’re abso-fucking-lutely amazing, to put it lightly. You can listen to a few tracks here, and I promise, if you have good taste, you will love them immensely.
I kind of feel like throwing up right now. After class I met a friend at the campus pub and drowned myself in the delights of Mr. Sam Adams, the Octoberfest version. I already knew that beer is magical, but today it helped me to learn that public transportation is so much more tolerable, and Jeanette Winterson is even more of a genius than she already is when you’re liquored up. Muttering and smiling to yourself because you're turned on by prose about a dead lesbian poet's sex drive isn't embarassing in the least and man! Food tastes even better than is usually does, you know? That off the wall brand of hamburger soup (yes, hamburger) that’s been in the pantry since who knows when? It doesn’t seem the slightest bit disgusting, even when you’re practically inhaling it out of the glass bowl you heated it up in, probably because you’re more focused on the fact that your fingertips are burning off.
Vomitacious.
Sometimes writers do really dumb things and it’s okay because they’ll post about it weeks, months, sometimes even years later, and from that retrospective point of view, the dumb thing is a little more acceptable to readers than it would be if the writer were to post about it right away. There is the assumption that the dumb thing has been recognized, learned from, put away, and now all that’s left is to laugh about it.
Typically I'd save this pointless story about beef, booze and barf for a lead in into something else, like, examples of how I became an alcoholic or, a manifest of things about me that I'm ashamed of, but I figure there's got to be some kind of benefit in the ability to make fun of yourself and not care, right?
Also, I’m trying this new thing where everything I publish on the net is for good. I’m used to posting something and then being able to change it around or delete it all together, but that little trick will do me no good when I want to publish for real, so I’m going to try to get used to it now while I still have the luxury. I want to confess my dumb behavior and commit to that confession. I'm convinced that this is in some wacky way, a good thing.
How much you want to bet I’ll read this tomorrow and want to bash my head against the wall?
It’s Official?
Today, armed with my transcripts, DARS (Degree Audit Reporting System) report, a standard black, ballpoint pen by Bic and printouts of countless emails just in case I needed proof that I was given the green light to take one class in place of another, I walked into the Creative Writing Chairperson’s office to have my graduation application signed.
Max and I have never been buddy buddy. I think this might be because I’ve been obsessively emailing her for the last 4 years about everything that has to do with being a CW student. Also, she’s not the loveliest of people. Her appearance and gait match almost exactly that of my 6th grade music teacher, Ms. McNab. Ms. McNab was a nasty old woman with a bad ankle, a banshee-like voice, glasses thick as fresh memo tablets and long, yellow finger nails. And if that isn’t bad enough, she also always had these old band aids on her face that would start to slip off towards the end of the day. I’m not really sure why they were there at all, except that I wouldn’t be surprised if Leprosy had something to do with it.
Okay, Max isn’t like that at all. She’s got a little bit of a hobble in her step, but that’s probably because of her gigantic ass. And she has a tinge of yellow in her nails and her face looks a little eaten, but that’s probably because she’s old. And queen of the underworld.
I wasn’t thrilled that I had to actually meet with her in person. In fact, if you haven’t guessed by now, I was dreading it. I walked into her cool office today with a fever (I’m sick) sweaty palms and a folder full of the said documents that her secretary said I’d need, including the application which I handed to her while stuttering something stupid because that's what flaming idiots do.
She took it, glanced at it, whipped out her own, fancy-shmancy pen and signed the bottom line. The whole thing took about forty-five seconds.
I couldn't believe it. You mean no complications? No twenty thousand units that I somehow managed to miss? No problem of the teeniest, tiniest nature? I walked out feeling like I had missed something. Like it shouldn’t have been that easy. Just the day before I had to do the same thing but for my Art major and was faced with a whole array of issues that I’m still trying to resolve.
But this whole writing thing. You mean, I’m done? No more baring my soul in fiction pieces to workshops full of people who are thisclose to falling asleep? No more faking emotion in poetry because I’m not good at it and never will be? No more spending hours on end pulling genuine shit out of my ass? You’re actually giving me the degree, just like that?
She said "congratulations" and gave me a smile that made it look like she could have actually meant it and I walked out feeling dazed and confused.
For some reason I don’t feel like I deserve it. This could be a problem.
An Artist’s Temperament
One of the advantages of being a Big Geek is that you unintentionally learn a lot of valuable skills. In my case, I began typing somewhere between 60 and 80 words per minute when I was in the seventh grade. This is probably due to the fact that instead of enrolling me in a dance class or a gymnastics class or that one class that turns young and impressionable children into musical prodigies like my mother always talked of doing, she sent me to a summer computer class where I sat in a stuffy room in front of a black and green monitor and typed. Then I went home and wrote short stories on our computer (at a quick pace!) and painted and drew. In the seventh grade, well after my summer-o-fun, I was required to take a computer class in which we spent the first half of class learning to type with the help of Mavis Beacon or Casper the Friendly Ghost, and the second half playing games like Indiana Jones. Fortunately I already knew how to type fast, so I finished my lessons quickly and went on to saving damsels in distress before most of my fellow classmates had even finished their first sentence. Tests to check our progress were held every two weeks. Each student would take his or her turn retyping the sentences that were displayed on Mr. Jacobson’s personal computer screen. And as if having an overweight computer nerd with consistently sweaty armpits looming over your shoulder as you stared at the blinking cursor, rhythmic like the foot-tapping of an impatient woman, wasn’t enough pressure, whatever was displayed on the monitor was also displayed on a large television set that was turned so everyone could see how the person in the hot seat was doing. That is thus far, the only instance in which going up in front of the classroom hasn’t completely terrified me.
The whole fast-typing thing lead to a job during high school at a law firm where I typed letters dictated by attorneys. It was cool at first because the letters were recorded onto tiny cassette tapes and I had this little pedal under my desk that when pressed would play the tape into my headphones and when released would stop it so I could type what I’d heard. Then when it was pressed again, it would rewind just a smidge so I could hear the last three or four words that were said just in case I had missed or forgotten them. Soon after the “cool” wore off, which was very quickly, a normal day was full of this:
“Pursuant to section 108 d of the-” “108 d of the” “Section 108 d” “To section 108 d” Okay. “Pursuant to” “Pursuant” “Suant” “Pur” “Pur” “Pur” “Pursuant to section 108 o-” “Section 108” “108” “Pursuant to section” “To section” “Pursuant-”
And so basically one day I “got lost” walking to work after school and never found my way back to that job again. A similar thing happened at another office job that I went for a couple of years ago out of a desperate need for cash. This time though, my attendance was optional because it was a student job and they didn’t want to interfere with my studies. By the way, if you hate your job and your attendance is optional, you will hardly ever go. And when you do go, you will spend your time looking for office supplies to steal and websites from which to download the Shallow Hal soundtrack and you will sign up for various online writing communities instead of working on your own personal .com that you paid good money for. And then a fellow secretary will find a box of old mail shoved under your desk that should have been filed six months ago and because it was not probably kept certain cases moving along at a nice snail’s pace, and you, who in fact did not place the mail there, will wonder why you didn’t think of hiding it yourself.
Back in January, when I was still kinda sorta attending said job, I joined an online writing community because some crazy hair up my ass spoke to me and it said, “Chelsi, if you join this online writing community you will have a reason to write while you are on winter vacation, and what you write will be glorious and many people will click on your articles and you will get paid vast amounts of cash with which you can pay your utility bills.” So I did, and since then have written one article. One measly article. I think I was kind of sore at the fact that my article was placed at number 17 out of 136 and was slowly moving down day by day. I mean, it’s a good article! I put a lot of thought into it! I used up good working hours to write that article! Do you know the kind of droning I had to tune out to write that article? Droning about casserole recipes and soccer teams! No joke.
Anyway. I checked the status of my article last night just for fun and guess what? My article is number 6 out of 226! That means two hundred and twenty people have a lamer article than I do! This excites me. The internet has finally acknowledged my abilities… sort of.
I’ve been inspired to pick up the project again, but this time it’s not because I need to pay utilities. I miss writing. I miss drawing and painting. I miss reading. I miss being a big geek. It’s time for this gross, zombified, nothing-but-work-and-school version of me to get out of town. I've come to realize that the workaholic in me doesn't actually get any real work done, if that even makes any sense, so I'll just go and fix my life now.
Wish me luck.
Progress?
Why’d I think it was going to take forever to get this site up and running?! It’s hardly been a week and already I have a photo up, a snappy About page (click the link under said photo, just to the right), a section for blurbs and a so-so banner decorated with a brush set that was inspired by Dr. Seuss! Everything is coming together quite nicely.
I’ve been a part of a small writing community in San Francisco for a while now, but because I’m weird and anti-social I haven’t really made strong ties with anybody in it. I even deleted the wordsmith guild from my groups on Myspace because I thought it made my profile look too cluttered. I know, I’m ridiculous and I deserve nothing.
I know a total of two people that I consider my “writer people.” One is my current house mate, the other my ex-roommate. They’re more than just ‘mates, they are my good friends and their opinions matter more to me than those of most other people. Of course, now that they both finally know about this site and can offer some genuine feedback, I have nothing to say. They’re probably both sitting in front of their lap tops in their respective cities thinking that I’m some kind of rambling idiot. Perfect.