The Way Back: Blog # 5
by Gammy L. Singer

I was struck the other day, while perusing Murder Must Advertise, (a yahoo web group I subscribe to where I read a lot of posts, but mostly lurk and rarely post), by a discussion of Pareto’s Principle. Well, okay, it wasn’t actually a discussion. One indignant poster was insulting another poster, (showing off his excellent command of the English language, by the way—impressive) that culminated, however, in a stupid harangue about whether Pareto’s Principle was a principle or a rule. (The offending original poster called it a rule! Tsk.) Sheesh—much ado and poo-poo about nothing!

However, I was interested because I had never heard of said principle—or rule, whatever. So I looked it up and was totally shocked! It is a business principle which says, in effect, that 20% of people in a business, organization et al. wind up doing 80% of the work. Yes, check out that club or church you belong to—see, applicable, ain't it? It’s an observation of the “vital few” and the “trivial many,” according to Dr. Joseph Juran, a Quality Manager pioneer who was the one responsible for taking Pareto’s idea and translating it into a business theory. (Pareto’s name stuck, however, probably because of the alliteration.) Pareto originally used it to describe the idea that 20% of people in the world (a vital few) hold 80% of the wealth.

The theory works other ways too. “In Juran’s initial work he identified 20 percent of the defects causing 80% of the problems. Project [Business] Managers know that 20 % of the work (the first 10% and the last 10%) consume 80% of your time and resources. “

Juran also said you can apply the 80/20 rule to almost anything, from the science of management to the physical world. And that’s what tripped me out! In the novel I’m working on now, I have a best friend female character theorizing to my protagonist about the fact that if you aren’t eighty percent or more happy with your man, then it’s time to let him go. Women hang on to and wait around for that twenty percent of good stuff to show up, (sometimes they stick for a measly ten percent), conveniently forgetting that they’re eighty percent miserable, eighty percent of the time.

Gee, didn’t know there was a principle involved. Or maybe I’ve heard something about this in the past, read it somewhere and my slumbering subconscious coughed it up. You think?
Hmm…so should I call the book, The 80/20 Man? How’s that for a title? If it gets sold, you heard it here first!

I’m awful at titles—better work on it.

80/20 Lover? 80/20 Love? So, Gammy, and where’s the suspense aspect? Where’s that in the title?

Oh hell. Mumble, mumble. I’ll work on it.

Almost done with the synopsis, folks. Tweaking two versions of the first three chapters—black heroine, white heroine. Should I be keeping this info under my hat?

The Way Back: Blog #4, Re-package, They Call It!
by Gammy L. Singer

Finally got feedback from my agent regarding concerns shared with him about the fact that mystery writers are being dropped by publishers of African-American fiction.

Yes, the above was confirmed by conversations with the editors at Kensington and Grand Central and “some other editors.” (Not sure who the some others are, or if there even are “some others.” (I always had the feeling that my last manuscript was marketed solely to those two houses.) The exception to the trend seems to be Perseus and Clive Ford. Unidentified sources say: “In the past couple of years, that niche was not selling.”

However, I was told, non-African-American editors were solicited and if I “re-package” myself—i.e, write “white characters,” they might consider taking on my work under a pseudonym if I am a “proven writer.” Kiss mah grits. What about James @$&#*!! Patterson and his black protagonist? The mystery writing sisters, P.J. Parrish, who also have a black protagonist? At Kensington, I do believe. Under their mystery line. Oh-oh-oh, and let's not forget Alexander McCall and his loveable African sleuth! And I can't write an African-American protagonist--like the comics say--because I'm black!!

Sisters, does that mean the Crime Sistahs Blog is obsolete? That we are obsolete?

Let me go sit on the toilet and think.

What are your thoughts?

The End.

The Way Back: Blog # 3, What’s in a Name
By Gammy L. Singer

What is in a name? I’m not asking just to be Shakespeare-rhetorical, but I’m seriously thinking about how or who should submit the synopsis and three chapters I’m working on.

My chapter of Sisters in Crime and I had Linda Fairstein as a speaker at our May meeting, and I was quite intrigued by bits of what she said. First, it was notable that even she, a best-selling author, harbors trepidations about the “next book”—whether it will sell well, etc., but I also picked up on her use of the “branding” term and how she definitely relates it to her “product.” It is not just a buzzword thrown around like a frizzbee among marketing professionals, but it’s a very real consideration in bookselling and book-buying. So we authors should pay attention to branding. I should pay attention. You should pay attention.

What I've learned: Authors’ names are often their brand. Or their series may be their brand. But an author's name or series name should be short, memorable, and easy on the tongue. Hmm… but I wanted to call myself Annamaria George for my next submission. Works well with my numerology folderol. Is that too long? (It’s my given and middle names switched around. Georgeanna Maria.) And is it memorable? Ugh. Does it roll trippingly, off the tongue? (Channeling Shakespeare today—sorry, guys!)

I personally think the name Gammy L. Singer is more memorable, that's why I've used it professionally for all these years--(if you Google me, I pop up quite a bit)--but it seems I’ve trashed that name, put it in the toilet with low book sales. But, but, but hark ye--I’ve spent so many years building it up—do I have to let it go now? Hey, it took GE and Coca-Cola a lotta- lotta’ years—talk about branding!

Okay, supposing I compromise, maybe plug ahead with future mysteries under Gammy, if my new agent (whoever that's gonna be) concurs, and this new venture into Romance, Romantic-Suspense, Romantic-mystery (??!)--whatever--I use Annamaria George. Anna George? Scooby-Doo?

And how should I deliver the project I’m working on now? My current plan is: send it to the editor, bypass my agent, written by (new name) and submit. But how's the editor going to know who it's from? I have to let her know it's me. But that screws up the whole “New Identity” thing.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” Shakespeare again.

Well, okay, if there’s a bite and an interest in publication, I’d contact an agent for representation (other than the one I have now, but with whom I'm not really happy) and we can go around the whole name thing at that time. Reasonable?

No, people, suffice to say, I have not ditched my current agent yet. Hedging, don’t want to do that until I’ve secured another. (I feel like Dick Cheney with all this skullduggery, but an author’s got to do what an author’s got to do, right? Should it be this hard though?)

What’s in a name? (hyperlink to Blog Branding et al.) Yikes. I guess I’ll find out.

(Does anybody say “yikes” anymore?) Did Shakespeare say it?

The Way Back: Blog #2, Clearing a Path to Opportunity
By Gammy L. Singer

Today I took an inventory of how I spend the hours of my day. To keep body and soul together during these challenging times, I’ve been working part-time as a fill-in resident counselor in a temporary shelter for teens — approximately 15-20 hours a week. It pays next to nothing, but the positive — always look for the positive — is that it is triggering my desire to write YA and I do have a book in mind — in fact, several.

But I’m chucking the job in June. Starting a daycare in September, before and after school care. Yes, I am. No more looking for a 9-5. I did that for a year and look what it's got me! Nada.

I also spend about 20-25 hours a week performing duties as Youth Director at my church, Unity Church of New York in NYC; doing lesson plans for four groups of kids; assembling craft projects; shopping for the Sunday School; working with fourteen teachers, et al. It involves quite a bit, and practically all Sunday every Sunday is devoted to it. I leave at 7 a.m. and return home about 6:30 p.m. That includes travel time, of course. So, together with my part-time job, that’s a work week, isn’t it?

The church responsibility is off my shoulders during July and August. Time earned.

I live now near the Catskills. When auditions come up, I travel back down to the City, and time-wise, I unfortunately blow off a whole day. (However, I take my Alpha-Smart with me and I write — that is, if I don’t nap — 110 minutes on the train each way.)

Auditions taper off in the summer months until mid-August. More time.

I’m also president of Sisters in Crime, NY/Tri-State Chapter. Being dutiful at the job has stolen away writing hours. I’ve loved the experience, but two years is enough. (But I'm telling you, if you want to feel connected, there’s no better place than organizations such as Mystery Writers of America and/or Sisters in Crime. I also belong to the Harlem Writers Guild in NYC. Addendum: I received a “comeback” grant for $1000 from MWA. Did you know that Sisters in Crime also offers money to authors through stipends to bookstores for advertising and publicity for events at their stores — turns out to be a good deal for independent bookstores and a good deal for authors.)

My tenure as SinC president ends in June. Y-a-ay! Time.

Whassup in June besides it busting out all over, you ask? What’s the plan? What’s the attack?

Well, let me tell you what I've already done. I wrote an email to the executive editor of the house which published my previous novels. Put things in point-blank terms. It went something like this, abbreviated:

Me: What’s my status with the company? Should I submit?

Her: (Re: last book) Blah-blah —“…modest sales,” she says, “but we’ll take a look, and of course, if it’s really good, we’d accept it.”

Like the cartoons, I see question marks where my eyes are supposed to be. Is that response enough to “build a dream on?” A-a-argh. Well, nothing beats a failure but a try. What have I got to lose but time? When the going gets tough, the tough get going ... together with any other sayings or aphorisms necessary to whip myself up to do what I need to do. Besides, past advice from other writers who have been in my predicament say, in a nutshell, do something different, then submit, submit, submit.

Hmmm… So the first thing I’ll do on the comeback trail is to write something “really good.” Ha! Hey, I can do that. I do my homework. I really check out the line this time. Can I compete? A preponderance of romances. Okay, so what if …?

That’s it. By June 1, three chapters and a synopsis of a romance, Gammy-style. Can I even write a romance? I did the “Can I?” question writing my first book and also when I wrote my first short story barely two months ago. I just went ahead and did it. But hey, guys, I'm not cranking out an entire book on the slim promise of “we’ll take a look.” Anyway, this summer I’m birthing another book — and quietly amassing a list of agents I’d like to represent me, and other things I’m planning to do differently this time around. TBA, the mistakes I made.

In the meantime, y'all, keeping myself open to splendor and opportunity.

I can do it. Y-e-a-a-h! I’m disciplined, I’m tough, and I’m B-a-a-ddd!

(To be continued)

The Way Back: Blog #1, New Beginnings
By Gammy L. Singer

For over a year I’ve been piddling around, trying to find my way, after my last novel was rejected by my publisher. Not only that-- it was also rejected by my first and only real editor who jumped publishing houses after my first novel was released. I asked my agent to give me feedback regarding the rejection. Sales, he said. Sales.

Ahhh.

There’s more to this story, including going through four editors in quick succession, and having an agent who seeks to market my stuff only to African-American lines, but I won’t bore you with all that. The point is, my last novel didn’t get published. The second point is, I’ve found out other mystery novelists writing for African-American lines have also been dropped. A trend?

So what to do? A nice advance, two novels published, and my short-lived career now over? That ain’t right, I tell myself—that just is not right! You know the feeling, don't you? Like those sexual encounters we’ve all had, those zip, bam, thank-you, ma’am whizzes—over before you even got to enjoy it, over before you were beginning to get the hang of things, over before you got to groove.

Well, after being in this muddle, what to do, what to write, who to write as, who to write for, get another agent !?!--I’m returning to blog on this site. Now, methinks, what can I really share with other writers on Crimesistahs Blog that might have some value to myself and to others? Certainly not “How to Write,” “How to Market,” How to Get Published” pieces. Seems hypocritical at this juncture. Besides, narratives work best for me.

So I said to myself, okay, how about I chronicle my efforts to become published once again, to get that next sell, and share with you in the meantime what I’m doing—my ups, my downs, what’s working, what’s not--and maybe you can similarly enlighten me and share? Besides, blogging about my efforts might keep me from rolling over and just laying there. Not doing anything. Playing dead.

Life is in the doing. And so I begin.

Again.

(Speaking of beginnings, here's something for fun, my daughter in Atlantic emailed me this. Her mom (me) in one of her first movies, Black Sister's Revenge (ha!), on Youtube, talking about beginnings! And if you're in Atlanta and love to scrapbook, check out my daughter Laetitia's shop!) Oh yes, in the video I'm the one with the beauty-shop-out-cha'-home business!



Laetitia Russ
Scrap Chic Boutique
2774 E. College Ave.
Decatur, GA. 30030
(404) 378-2115
http://www.scrapchicboutique.com/
wwwscrapchicboutique.typepad.com

Hello, All,
Letting you know I’m b-a-a-ack! Where have I been? In book hell, trying to finish up my suspense thriller. Well, I did it, I’m done. I titled it Dead Stop--found out there’s a film with that same title. Boo. Which just means there’s nothing new in the universe, especially titles.

FYI I’ll be blogging on Sundays and will be slinging tidbits around relating to all things theatrical, ‘cuz that’s my special interest. Will be doing film reviews, interviews, and keeping an eye out on the book option market, and noting who's selling what. Would welcome additional tidbits!

In the meantime, read below and laugh. This compilation of Worst Analogies appeared on the yahoo listserv of fellow writers, all graduates of my alma mater, Seton Hill University and its graduate Writing Popular Fiction Program.



WORST ANALOGIES...EVER

~ He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the
East River.

~ Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only
one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

~ The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil,
this plan just might work.

~ The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating
for a while.

~ He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but
a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or
something.

~ McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled
with vegetable soup.

~ Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides
gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

~ She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature Canadian beef.

~ She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes
just before it throws up.

~ The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

~ He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as
if she were a garbage truck backing up.

~ She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

~ It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to
the wall.

~ The brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.

~ I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name
for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don't speak German.
Anyway, it's a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little
square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don't know the name for
those either.

~ He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

~ The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you
fry them in hot grease.

~ The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr.
on a Dr Pepper can.

~ He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a
guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high
schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it.

~ The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a
bowling ball wouldn't.

~ From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie,
surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy"
comes on at 7 p.m. instead of 7:30.

~ Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

~ Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the
center.

~ Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a
movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like "Second Tall
Man."

~ Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left
Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19
p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

~ John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had
also never met.


Hope your holidays are happy.

Blessings,
Gammy L. Singer