My mom, tenacity + goodies for you

In the summer of 1980, my mom was eight months pregnant with my brother. The house – a split-level in the woods of New Hampshire – needed to be painted. So she did it. By herself.

I remember watching from the driveway, looking up at her perch on the ladder to the second story, as she spread the cream colored paint across the clapboards.

It didn’t matter that my dad was flipping out. Or that everyone around her told her to get off the damn ladder. Because no one tells my mom what to do.

That sort of fire, that tenacity, however distressing to those around us, is built into the women in my family. It’s as genetic as high cheekbones and full lips.

Tell me I can’t do something and I’ll do it to spite you.

Fast-forward to 1995. I got a German shepherd puppy, which I intended to show. Because it was interesting, this whole subculture of training and exhibiting dogs. And because I love animals.

My mother: “You can’t show dogs. That’s for rich people.”

Frankly, she should have known better.

I just nodded and did it anyway. And lo, in 2010, this happened. (Skip to the 8:30 mark and watch the gentleman with the white hair.)

That’s my girl winning Best of Breed at Westminster Kennel Club. That’s right, the prestigious and televised dog show held at Madison Square Garden each year. She did it. And then she went on to win Herding Group Four on TV that night. (As I type this, she is sleeping at my feet.)

So don’t tell me I can’t. Ever.

“You can’t be a reporter.”

“You can’t write a book.”

“You can’t start your own business.”

Done. Done, three times. And done.

Did I freak out? Every damn time. Then I did it anyway.

Because the only way out is through.

Because how would I know if I didn’t try?

Here’s the thing.

We all get insecure. We all feel scared and overwhelmed. Like we want to curl into ourselves, possibly under two or three LL Bean down comforters – while in flannel pajamas from two days before – and never, ever come out.

That’s normal.

What you do about it is what makes the difference.

Feel the fear and do it anyway. Write your story. Try.

Anything can happen.

For the record, my mother had my brother a month after the house was painted. No complications. He was fat and healthy, and is now a genius. So there’s that.

Sometimes people say you can’t do something because they’re worried about you. How you’ll cope with the process or the outcome, or both. Sometimes they say you can’t because they don’t understand that sort of yearning or desire. And that’s okay. No one else has to like what you do with your life.

But for God’s sake, don’t give in to the naysayers. Go with your gut.

I do all the time.

And here are two gifts for you for coming along with me.

From Saturday, March 8, to Wednesday, March 12, my Amazon #1 Bestseller THE Guide will be free. Grab a copy for yourself, your friends, the writer in your life. Mark it on your calendar and I’ll remind you later.

AND

A new cell phone app for writers is now underway. The lovely Lindsey Collins is whipping it into submission right now. What will it do? Send daily writing inspiration to your phone, naturally – but not just any inspiration. My special brand of “get off your ass” combined with videos, pics and funky quotes – direct to your pocket. How cool is that?

A taste: “Fire breathing dragons cannot keep you from the page. Write. Now.” (Click to tweet.)

It’s fun doing what everyone said you couldn’t.

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The Mother of All Query Letters

by Guy Bergstrom

Dear Agent Sir or Madam,

I am writing to you, or your agency, to acquire literary representation in Manhattan, Hollywood, London and wherever else such deals are made to publish books and turn them into movies.

Why? Because my 333,333 1/3rd-word fictional novel (Book One of a 1 million-word trilogy) is guaranteed to be bigger than Star Wars crossed with Fifty Shades of Grey, with Oprah and Brad Pitt on top, like two cherries on a chocolate sundae instead of the single little cherry they give you at Dairy Queen over on 15th Avenue because those cherries, let me tell you, they taste like rubber mixed with corn syrup.

Now, I know the book world establishment is liable to pigeonhole books, and a person could say I KNOW WHERE THE BODIES ARE BURIED, DARTH SAREK OF VULCAN is a mystery about an ordinary gravedigger who’s secretly a half-ninja, half-Vulcan, half-Jedi and only finds this out on account of him falling into a freshly dug grave on a Saturday night and waking up in a strange world where he’s six inches taller, has pointed ears and a sweet green laser sword.

And I suppose you could say it’s a romantic comedy set in a sci-fi action universe, since this hero gets more action than James Bond himself judging one of them Miss Universe contests, but that would be selling this story short. Who doesn’t want to see ninja Jedi adventuring through space and time with laser swords and starship battles? Also, instead of green alien women, I’ve got purple and orange ones.

It’s got fighting, cussing, dark deeds, giant space battles with starships way out in outer space and new life forms with their own languages and strange ways of fighting, cussing and doing dark deeds.

As for reviews and such, all five of my cousins, my momma and even Grandma Wilma, who hasn’t read a book since she stopped reading Archie’s Digest back in 1963, well, they all say this story sounds like a sure-fire winner, the kind they’d pay full price to see at the drive-in, long as the weather held up.

The full fictional novel is attached as an encrypted WordStar document. It’s also available on 5.25-inch floppy disks, and I’m running out of those, so act now. I’ll give the winning agent the password to read it. Also, I’m fixing to finish the screenplay for the first two books before Christmas, so the best agent should also sell a lot of of movies.

Some agents want a synopsis, but reading the story is a lot better than reading about the story, especially the parts after the hero falls into that grave and wakes up.

My cousin has one of those internet phones and says agents want to know about my publishing credits. So listen: I’ve been a professional gravedigger for 23 years and have published 983 stories all over that world wide web on www.blogger.com, keeping my site set to private because I don’t want people stealing my ideas. See? That’s how VALUABLE they are.

The only question is this: are you gonna hop on this money train or are you gonna let it pass on by?

Sincerely,

Stefan Kingsley

P.S. This here is my pen name, guaranteeing my trilogy sits smack dab next to all those books by Stephen King, who I figure from looking at his photos is older than Roy Rogers’s uncle by now and fixing to retire or die, whichever comes first. To write me checks, you’ll need my full legal name, though I’d prefer cash on account of some trouble with the IRS that started in 1997.

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Guy Bergstrom won awards as a journalist before working as a speechwriter and cashing checks from The New York Times as about.com’s expert on public relations. He wrote a thriller (FREEDOM, ALASKA) that won some award and he’s represented by Jill Marr of the Dijkstra Literary Agency. Follow him on his blog redpenofdoom.com, or Twitter at @speechwriterguy, or Google+