“I write, therefore I re-write.” This is a common position among writers, as we know that whatever brilliance we think we may have at one time put upon the page, that, now, we can do better. For me, it’s like looking at myself in pictures from the 90s and thinking, How did I think stone-washed jeans looked cool then?  My fashion sense has vastly improved.

We may tinker and toy with our work ad nauseam. We can over-think it, and sometimes destroy inspired work in the pursuit of editing perfection, which–I’ve realized–is impossible. Not impossible in paragraphs or pages. Not impossible with character, witty dialogue, or story structure. But in totality, probably, yes. Like “the pursuit of happiness” in the Declaration of Independence, the pursuit of the goal is preached, celebrated, and declared as all-important. Sadly, it’s not often achieved. Even the best writers and their agents or publishers employ editors, sometimes multiple ones, in an effort to improve the work beyond its absolute capacity for perfection. (A flawlessly edited book can still be a bore to read, too, which is a whole other Oprah.)

Facing perpetual editing is an awful burden. Relentless writers who seek perfection through editing, so to provide specific, intended impact to the reader, are tortured heroes. The editing process is an important one, where prose is sharpened, plot and character inconsistencies are remedied, and stories evolve for the better. Readers benefit greatly from it.

Eventually, though, there comes a time when the writer must be comfortable walking away from the work, so to let new juices emerge. It’s how we flourish as writers. I’m currently doing my last run-through edit of The Silent Partner–this time, approving changes by the publisher’s line-editing team, so it can be published and I can get started on the next project.

As long as The Silent Partner is perfectly edited, that is.

If your personal relationships and obligations aren’t obstacles to your storytelling mojo, and you’re still having problems focusing on your writing, it’s possible that extreme levels of media stimuli are the culprit. From experience, I’ve been the happy, intended victim of over-stimulation of all media–that is, music, film and TV, sporting events, news in any form, social media, books (Gasp! Yes, this can happen.), and advertising all around us–all of which can hamper the coveted discovery of fresh, purposeful prose. And, sans the advertising plate that has glared at me from the urinal (the front sports page is much more pleasurable), I’ve been content and accommodating in absorbing it all, as it got in my way.

No doubt, sometimes various media have contributed to or downright inspired compositions from many of us writers. A song ever inspire you? A news story? A bad movie? (“Oh, done right, this story could have rocked it!”) A great one? Social media helps us connect–and sometimes promote, the news informs, and other stories around us may provide us springboards for our inspiration to tell our own tales. So how do we turn it all off so we can focus? Aren’t reading books supposed to help us with our own writing? (Absolutely they do.) So with the bombardment of inspiration and distraction, how do you determine which media to embrace and which to turn off?

What’s worked for me: Simply, if there’s a story that demands to be told, and it needs you to tell it, and you’re on a roll, stick with reading books and news headlines, watch the relevant games only, and embrace the music that fuels your fire. Doing this for two years or more of a writing project is impossible for most of us, but for those days or weeks when you’re in the zone (when our best work emerges almost magically), managing your focus in storytelling is simply keeping new, emerging stories in your head from vying for your attention. Keep a clear head the best you can.

You can also avoid public restrooms. If appropriate.

If you’ve ever submitted a manuscript to a literary agency in hopes of scoring literary representation, you know that the process is (almost) as artful as the development of the manuscript itself. There are scores of tactics that writers have used to get their work in front of their target audience, ranging from the blind query letter (boring), to the literal elevator pitch (really . . . in an elevator . . . which can, depending on the agent, border on assault). A friend of mine sent a copy of his manuscript in a shoebox, with a shoe, mind you, and a note pleading his case that he was just trying to get his foot in the door. Creativity through this process can bring attention to the submission, send a literary agent away screaming for their space, or–quite possibly–land you in jail. (For me, a reevaluation of friends may be in order.)

Agents are inundated with submissions, so who’s to blame the ambitious author who provides their work in a shoebox? Despite its cheesiness, it’s hard to fault the ambitious author who does whatever he or she has to do to break through. Maintaining professional dignity through the process, however, may provide an an agent a desirable client. Indeed, there’s no one right way to get a book published, and agents have a spectrum of sensibilities in regard to submissions. For The Silent Partner, review copies of the book are in development for reviewers, bloggers, and agents and acquisition editors, and some free copies for a grassroots fanbase in development. (In the end, it is the work that matters, and its marketability, but building a desirable readership has its advantages, too, in bringing attention to the material. We’ll see how this goes.)

For me, a shoebox is out. I’ve never seen 8 1/2″ by 11″ shoeboxes that would fit an unfolded copy of my manuscript anyway.

Nowadays, aspiring novelists must contend with the promotion (and possible stigma) of an unpublished book. We may have other published works, sure, but a long-term writing project like a novel-in-progress can frustrate even the most patient storyteller and wordsmith. A working novel’s manuscript–unfortunately–isn’t a book until it looks like one, feels like one, is bound (usually), is available digitally (especially if it isn’t bound), and probably has an ISBN code so it can be sold. The opportunity to self-promote via the Internet means a number of us now are pre-promoting work prior to its release, which is exciting, educational, time-consuming, somewhat social (admittedly stretched rationalization) and–for me–rewarding. It’s self-induced pressure to the max . . . heralded only by those of us doing it, because we understand and appreciate it.

The pre-promotion of a forthcoming book for a first-time novelist is necessary. Growing readership of our work shouldn’t focus merely on agency representation or publication itself, but getting our work out there to an eager audience that’s waiting to discover it. The largest audience possible, yes, but we shouldn’t seek to merely get signed to a specific agent or publisher. Instead, we need to define what route makes most sense for us to protect our integrity as writers and get our work read by the most people possible . . . those searching for our kind of work. If a literary agency or publisher has faith in the commerce behind the art, we’ve hit gold. No doubt, readership can grow immensely with that support.

For those of us seeking such representation, a burgeoning fanbase clearly illustrates a writer’s marketability . . . and reduces the risk of anyone investing time and energy into them. This would go for any artist. Case and point: A couple days ago, a rock band I’ve followed for a couple years finally got signed to a label. I discovered Imagine Dragons performing in Las Vegas and have followed them since, have seen them here in San Diego, and–after a few years of recording, performing, and promoting–they’ve hit a grand slam by signing with Interscope Records. Dedication to their craft is not in question, nor is the magnitude of their growing fanbase. It took a couple years, though, of looming in on a targeted objective. Dan Reynolds, the frontman for the band, said to Las Vegas Weekly, “The goal of a band should never be to sign with a major label. It should be to make good music and get it out to as many people as possible.”

We need conviction in our work and dedication to cultivating our talent. And tireless self-promotion, so that our work does indeed exist . . . in the form of a book.

This book trailer was produced in an effort to bring more attention to the unpublished manuscript. During production, we strove to create a book trailer that was cinematic in scope–despite its shoestring budget–without giving away the bank in story, character, or plot. Most book trailers justifiably shy away from showcasing any characters, for fear of providing too much information regarding their look and visual texture. We went a different direction with The Silent Partner, figuring that we could get away with showing snippets of scenes if the trailer was shot tight enough . . . if the pacing was quick . . . and instead focused on the hints of story arcs. Our objective: to pique interest in an entertaining way.

After all, much like how watching a music video (remember those?) can change the way you hear a song, a book trailer can change your mental picture of characters, setting, etc. That said, the intention wasn’t to preserve the imagination of someone who’s never heard of the book, but rather promote the book’s existence (or, more accurately, its forthcoming existence). Like a music video, the promotion of the coming book will hopefully lead people’s interest in the source material. If we’re vague enough with the story and characters in the trailer, and the book is then discovered, hopefully it will be enjoyed by readers as intended, and passed on to others. In the end, we’ll know if this worked out.

Here we go . . .

The biggest problem working on a project is when you want to get started on another one. Been there? The juices aren’t just flowing, they’re growing, and you know that moving forward with another idea–or group of ideas–is a bad move when project number one hasn’t been completed to satisfaction. How do you cope?

Consider letting your new idea ferment a little, like a good chianti. (No fava beans, please.) Let yourself be even more inspired–if that’s possible–to finish your current work. Maybe you’ll move faster, or obstacles will know to move out of your way when they see you coming. (Don’t think of yourself as Moses. It will come off badly, I promise.) Embrace and document all of your ideas, big and small, and put them in a drawer, on a Word doc, or on a memo on your iPad . . . whatever . . . but don’t let go the focus of your current project. Get it done.

After all, wouldn’t you rather have one finished piece of work–to your satisfaction–than ten unfinished ones?

Everyone educated about such conundrums has–so far–given me different opinions on this, so clearly there’s not one right way to go about it. Perhaps we’re all wrong, because often the most splashy news articles about writers’ success document how those visionary talents did something differently. The things these writers have in common with each other, from Christopher Meades and Steve Berry to Kathryn Stockett: perseverance in putting out their best work and an unforgiving desire to succeed.

The Silent Partner book trailer took 11 months to make, from script to final version of the official trailer (planned for a release on YouTube after its showcase in San Diego on September 21st, 2011). The book, though, took almost five years to write. (By “write”, I mean write, re-write, blow up, write again, revise, pull hair out, revise again, etc.) Now that it’s done, more time and energy can go back into agency submissions and–gasp–writing again. Production of the trailer has afforded me time to conceive the next novel.

The vision behind the trailer was to showcase a fresh, new story. Just that, there are two mediums used to tell it. If we can get people to take notice, just maybe we’ll be able to get representation for the manuscript, and we’ll have a book.

Then, it’s up to the cosmos.

Five years ago, the idea for the book first made its way onto computer screen. The first two and a half years I was on my own, discovering and writing. It would take a couple years for a first draft (that no one shall ever see, it was so bad). Over the next year and a half, my book editor, Wendy, assisted with multiple drafts while I attempted to turn the story into something people would want to read. Big discovery came here, too, along with humble pie and the revelation that I had no idea what I was doing. But quitting wasn’t an option. Too much time had been invested, and I’d learned resiliency years ago. It was time to learn how to write, and not fool myself that I already knew how. It didn’t matter how many writing books I had read or how many A’s I’d received in college studies. I now studied feverishly, unlike I’d ever studied anything before. (My college professors would surely be irate if they knew I had ignored such capacity to expand while in their classes.) The Silent Partner eventually emerged from an idea and poorly written story into a crafted and structured novel that, hopefully, will be read.

I had never heard of book trailers until about ten months ago, when Wendy said I should look into them, given my background and affection for film. Completing the manuscript had led to the additional challenge–and fortune–of finishing the book trailer to promote it. Now, with a number of agency rejections to back my claim up that my manuscript does indeed exist, soon the launch of the book trailer will showcase the book in a new medium. All in the effort to have a new voice and bring attention to the source material, acquire agency representation, and–more importantly–get The Silent Partner published.

The solitude of writing, rewriting, editing, revising, throwing away, and starting over again . . . gave way to collaboration with a team and crew of artists–from a number of disciplines–to bring The Silent Partner to life. Filmmakers–from a cinematographer to writers and directors–and actors, a producer-pal and location scout, a film editor and special effects pro, a composer, a band, a sketch artist, and book designer (to assist with the promo “cover” of the book). Many of them now friends.

What an incredible array of talents . . . all bound together for a book that no one yet knows exists.

For some writers, choosing the genre or style of their book is easy. Mysteries, thrillers, romance . . . easy-to-define genres with somewhat universal formulas that say to the literary agent on the hunt for new material, “This is what it is.” Fortunately for the easy-to-define genre writer, agents are usually very clear on what work they represent. A little homework can pay off for writers seeking time efficiency, who research what genre agents represent. What a waste of time and energy–possibly for a number of people–for an agent to reply to a query, “I appreciate your children’s story, and it may very well have promise, but I only represent non-fiction.“

Burgeoning novelists who cross genres face the challenge–correction, additional challenge . . . as if they need more of those–of determining exactly what genre their book is. (Writing instructors insist you should have known this before you started writing it, anyway.) How do you pitch a cross-genre book in an elevator pitch, a.k.a. “the thirty-second pitch”, when you’re nervous as hell and you’re trying to keep it simple and compelling? I’ve discovered expressing the book with a surplus of genres is indeed a great way to make an absolute idiot of myself. “This is a commercial fiction upmarket novel that delves into urban fantasy and romance with some action and suspense and a little bit of supernatural.” Oh my God, my own head spins writing it. As groundbreaking of a story as I may think (read: hope) it is, come on! There’s got to be an easier way of describing The Silent Partner.

Now, I’ve never really used the term, “upmarket”. I remember the Writer’s Digest Conference where I had first heard someone use it. (I’m still not entirely sure of its exact definition, being that everyone explains it differently. Perhaps agents have a clearer definition than the writers I’ve come across.) The ambitious confusion that fills the minds of writers pitching their work for the first time is interesting to watch. For those of us pitching our work multiple times and stumbling through our multi-genre pitches, the experience is nothing short of tragic.

This is what I’ve learned: If you’re going to cross genres, try to keep it limited to two of them. Spend the rest of your time focusing on the relatable and compelling parts of your story. This can hopefully lead to questions regarding character and motivations through the narrative drive, rather than confusion over elements of genre. In the end, an agent may better appreciate the other ingredients seamlessly woven into the story. If anything, there may be one more literary-appreciating person who reads some of our work, which is what it’s all about.

PS: Chick-lit, I hear, is dead. Don’t use it.