What I Couldn't Say That Night

I've been doing a lot of soul-searching as I draft my next book. I'm a classic over-thinker, but also, as a YA author, I take my job VERY seriously. My intended audience is young women (and men) and that carries a lot of weight. During the day, I shape young minds as a teacher and mom, and in the evening, I get to shape hearts as a writer. It's an incredible feeling, but yeah. I think about it a lot before I set fingers to the keys... 

So let me tell you all a story about how I got started. I’ve worked with kids and teens all of my life. One night, when I was in my early twenties, I co-lead a junior high/senior high girls small group (similar to bible study, but more casual) with a home-schooling mom of teens. Let me start out by saying I love homeschooling moms. This isn’t a reflection on that. I’m just not comfortable saying names even a decade later.

ANYWAY, this mom pulled a fast one on me. I don’t recall the topic, but whatever it was, it WASN’T abortion or premarital sex. But that’s what she chose to talk about. She was prepared. She had pictures and articles and materials and eyes full of thundering damnation and I was…. Not prepared for this.

She lectured and terrified and accused these young girls and Reader, I was FURIOUS. Shaking, sweating, stuttering. Jesus flipping tables in the temple had nothing on me. All I could think was what if one of these girls had an abortion? Or knew someone who’d had an abortion? Or, more likely, had premarital sex? Or wanted to have premarital sex because that is a NORMAL DESIRE for a hormonal human being.

And what if they went home and cried after that night and decided that because of those things, because of those gory photos or those damning articles written by nobody important, Jesus couldn’t want them or love them?

That night, I tried to patch the hole I saw growing in their hearts. I quoted the truth that “God is love” and how the greatest commandment is love, and that no matter what you’ve done in your life, it doesn’t matter because God is grace and mercy and HE STILL WANTS YOU EVEN IF YOU’RE MESSY and I don’t know if a single one heard my voice over the rushing accusations in their ears, but I pray they did.

But more than that, I remember getting into the car that night with my husband (who led the boys group and who was like, YOU TALKED ABOUT WHAT? WE JUST PRAYED AND LISTENED TO SKILLET) and cried. I was so angry, I cried. I felt helpless and hopeless and utterly defeated because like it or not, fear is powerful motivator and those girls were so afraid of themselves and their bodies and their decisions and that was… ugh. My stomach churns even now. I’m crying even now.

Its funny, but I think that’s the night I stopped giving a fuck about hurting the church’s feelings.

I came home and I looked at my piles and piles of Christian fiction scattered around our spare room and I was angry. Yeah, sure, it’s inspirational when a character set in the 1870s can keep her faith and fight temptation because everything about her society and culture (of no one, because she’s alone on the frontier) supports that.

But what about someone in 2008 (or 2018 for that matter)? How does someone keep their faith when they are told that literally everything they do all day is an abomination of God? Cuss when you spill your soda while driving? Sin. Check out a guy when you’re swimming? Sin. Check out a guy when you’re a guy? Sin. Sip a beer at a party? Sin. And all of those sins? Straight to hell. There’s no middle ground. No grace. No Jesus.

Who can live like that? Who wants that kind of belief system in their life?

I’m not a great public speaker, but I can write. And I decided that I was going to write alternative Christian fiction. Of course, I’d never written a book before in my life and writing books is hard, but I was determined to create an option C. Not quite secular, but definitely not inspirational (at least in that way).

It took me a long time to finish something and then I started querying my books to every Christian agency or publisher I could think of. I was met with immediate resistance. Granted, my early efforts were not great, but Christian agents would jump on my queries and then almost immediately reject when they read the full citing, “not a good fit”. I knew what they meant. They didn’t care for my less than pious characters. (if you ever want to feel bad about yourself, pull up a Christian publisher and check out their submission guidelines. Mother Theresa would be rejected)

Then came the book of my heart, a story about a teenage girl whose popular sister drives her car off a cliff on purpose and ends up on life support. The story follows Ramona, the sister left behind, as she tries to piece together what happened to Laney to make her do what she did, all before the machines are turned off. This book took off with agents, but then the rejections rolled in. “I didn’t get the God stuff”, “It’s too much religion”, “This is beautifully written, but I’m not a good fit for this kind of book”.

It broke my heart into pieces. I sent out 90 queries. Had so many requests, but no offers. My CPs talked me down. We discussed removing some of the faith-talk, but I’d used that scene from youth group that I started this entry with… it was pivotal to the story. Pivotal to ME. The church had failed Ramona’s sister and it needed to be said.

So I shelved the book and wrote YOU’D BE MINE, which was far lighter (mostly, heh) than YOU SHOULD BE HERE. I sent it to my CPs who said, “Uh, Erin, you do you, BUT, you probably aren’t going to win any big hitter agents with this. You still have a lot of God in this book.” And I knew that. Annie wears her faith like a second skin. She’s not preachy or cruel, she’s just who she is. And when I was in her head, it came out.

I sat on it. Prayed about it. Cussed about it. Drank wine about. I talked with my husband who shrugged and said, “It’s up to you, but you started writing because you wanted real characters out there and I think you’ll regret it if you take it out and it sells.”

“But what if I leave it in and it never sells?”

“Then you write another one.”

(By the way, that’s the LAST thing an author ever wants to hear. “Just write another one.”)

I removed a single word and queried. The rest you know. YOU’D BE MINE comes out April 2^nd with Wednesday Books/Macmillan and the world can read about Annie and her sloppy faith (amongst other things like kissing and country music and blue jeans and sassy lyrics).

I’ve spent my life sinning. Like constantly. Little sins all day long, big sins, too, if you’re into ranking. But I’ve also lived knowing that God’s grace covers me and his love is everything.

I don’t give a shit if you sin. Or don’t sin. What I care about, so deeply, is that you know that no matter what, no matter who you are, or aren’t, God loves you. And so do I.

And Annie and Ramona and every character that I ever write, would love you too.

How I Became an Agented Author

It’d be easy to not write this blog post because part of me is stupid-scarred from years of rejections and doesn’t want to rehash it publicly. But the thing is, these “How I Got My Agent” posts gave me life as a querying author and it’s only right that I return the favor. Great big fucking circle of the writerly life and all, right?

So, I’ll tuck my pride and do the thing. Warning: this post is long because my journey was long.

Here’s the deal, guys. A lot of you know me. I’ve been around twitter since December of 2014, I think? Which is right about the time I finished my first book.

It wasn’t a very good book. The concept was cool, the characters were some of my best and the dialogue was on point. But the story line was riddled with plot holes and that was just the beginning of the problems. No one had read my book besides my family. I worried a lot about grammar, but then sent it out never even realizing it was single spaced. SINGLE SPACED YOU GUYS.

I hopped on to Writers Digest, took down the first ten names of brand new agents accepting SFF and away they went. My query letter was lengthy, my first pages featured a girl getting ready for school and LOOKING IN THE MIRROR and my chapter titles featured grunge songs from the 90s.

Despite this, I had a few requests. Not many… maybe 4 total in 50 queries? All of them were NO’s. “Nice writing, but not ready.” I can’t tell you stats because I didn’t even keep track of them.

I half-heartedly sought beta readers. I hadn’t even heard of a CP (critique partner) at this point. THAT’S how green I was. I scored a few, but found I did a lot of work for very little in return. I tried to join an online writing community, but that was a lot of the same. Then one day, I just happened across a tweet looking for an MS swap. I jumped into my DMs so fast, you’d think I KNEW this tweet would change my life.

Because it did. It’s how I met Karen McManus and how we ended up reading each other’s terrible trilogies and while the books were NO GOOD, we realized that as writers, we weren’t that bad. So we became clueless CP’s, fumbling around together. There was a lot of “I know they say NOT to start in front of a mirror, BUT…” and “Sure, dystopians are supposedly out of fashion, but MINE’S DIFFERENT…”

Anyways, I wrote another book during nanowrimo just to prove to myself that I could write something besides the ill-fated trilogy. A contemporary fantasy about the daughter of tree spirits. It was cute, likeable, snarky and fun. It got zero love.

Okay, maybe not zero. I think I sent out 20 queries and got back 1 partial request that turned into a rejection.  A pretty traumatic thing happened in my family at the same time, and I just gave up on my happy little tree sprites. Shelved. I wrote the book to prove I could and I did. Moving on.

During this time, I was in and out of hospital waiting rooms and doctor’s offices and dark places in my mind and the idea came to me to write a contemporary YA about the sibling of a popular girl who drives her car off a cliff. It was really sort of autobiographical, as I was (in my youth) a teen who battled with depression and suicidal thoughts. I poured my soul into this book. After just pages, my CPs would write back THIS IS THE BOOK. I didn’t want to think it, but I hoped. Afterall, my guts were inside that book.

I sent it out and the response was quick! Full requests rolled in one after another. My CPs were right! This was it! I entered it into pitch contests and had ten agents ask for a query. I was on fire!

Until I wasn’t. Weeks went by and I’d heard nothing and then the gradual step asides. It wasn’t clicking with agents. It was too religious. They didn’t get the teen’s anger. The dancing was lovely, but the rest….

I gained more CPs and they were lifesavers. They loved the book and they loved me. They wouldn’t let me give up on my dream or the book. They’d entered pitchwars and convinced me to do the same. But, they got in and I didn’t. All of my CP’s were either IN pitchwars or mentors. It was a dark time for this writer. I cried my eyes out and sent out more (revenge) queries. So many queries. I think my final number for this particular book was 86 queries. Let me say that again: Eighty-six.

Barely any requests came through, though. The election was looming in the US and let’s face facts: No one wants to read a sad story when they’re sad. And everyone was/is sad.

Nanowrimo time came again and I decided the best way to beat the blues was to write something new. Something different than I’d ever written before. I’d seen a documentary on the Carter family on Netflix and was amazed to learn that while basically everyone in the world knew who Johnny Cash was, but he was star struck by June Carter and her famous family. THEY were the celebrities to him.

A little seed sprouted in my brain. What if I wrote about country music? What if I wrote a love story? WHAT IF MY FEMALE LEAD WAS THE LEGENDARY ONE? The pitch came first. You guys, I HATE writing pitches and it came first. The concept was born and the book flew out of me from there. I always binge write. Fly by the seat of my pants for two months until the words are all spent. My husband just knows the dishes wont get done and I won’t remember anything he says and I will walk around with random dirty kid socks in my back pocket in public until I’m done with my draft.

I finished it and sent it CPs. They didn’t dare tell me this one was The Book. They knew I’d been burned before. I revised and revised and it was ready to query but I froze. There is this very short period of grace between finishing and querying where you are filled with all sorts of incredible HOPE. It’s this fragile, completely delicate spun sugar sort of time. Once that first rejection rolls in, it’s over. I could live in that time. Seriously. Roll in it forever.

But #pitmad came up again and I’d promised myself I would pitch it. I was about to start a full time sub job at an elementary school and needed to get the queries out before I lost my nerve. So I pitched. I got favorites. Lots of them. I mailed queries, and got requests. Five of them within twenty-four hours. From good agents.

But still, I couldn’t let myself hope again. Eventually I received three very quick R&R’s. All with very different visions. No rejections, but no takers either. My CPs said to keep going. I compiled the agent’s suggestions and on my day off, added 4k of backstory. Then I queried again.

A full request in less than 6 minutes. Okay. Keep going.

I sent two more. And two more. I’d get a quick no, and I’d send two more. Another request and another. My CPs (mostly Annette Christie- biggest cheerleader ever) said QUERY MORE. So I did. I sent out fifteen.

Over the next week, I had 7 more requests. No rejections. WHAT IS HAPPENING.

Then I wait. Another week passes with a very kind and encouraging rejection. Memorial Day comes and I leave for Illinois and tell my family over wine that I’m not sure if I feel hopeful or just burned from the last experience. I get back to Michigan and pack for Boston. I fly out the next morning for Karen McManus’ book debut party. Remember her? How could you forget? We started this crazy journey together. I’m checking my phone on my way out the door to dinner with my other CP, the marvelous Jenny Howe, before the big debut party…. when I see it.

The Email. You know how gmail only shows you a few words? I saw the word LOVED in all caps and started shaking so bad I couldn’t click for more. It was an agent and she wanted to talk to me.

The rest is a whirlwind. We spoke and clicked right away. I nudged all the other agents with my full (and queries) and fielded a few more requests and to my shock, ALL asked to still read. I had more offers and they were beyond gracious and lovely, but in the end I stuck with my first choice. There’s something to be said for the one who fishes you out of the slush and the things she said about my book just STUCK in my brain and wouldn’t let go. Kate McKean offered and I accepted and I won’t be looking back.

I sent 46 queries for YOU’D BE MINE over two months. I received 15 full requests and 3 R&Rs.

I entered every pitch contest under the sun during those three years. The only one I ever got in to was #pg70pit, which will always hold a special place in my heart, even though the rest of the MS was a mess. That said, twitter and twitter contests are where I found my people. In the three years I’ve been doing this, ALL my CPs have found agents. One has a very successful book deal and three are on or about to be on submission. This is real life. It does happen. It takes time, but it happens.

Stick with it, kids. Thanks for all the love and kindness.

Erin

#nogreaterproof

Hi, my name is Erin and I have a phobia of making videos. I can be perfectly eloquent on the page or even in person, but you turn on a camera and I'm a beet-red, stuttering mess.

Therefore, when my church, NorthRock, started this whole #nogreaterproof campaign and asked us to share one minute of recorded testimony of God's work in our lives, I laughed it off. Mike got right to his. Let it be known my husband is not at all camera shy and is a fantastic speaker. I shared his video and called it good enough. Basically a "Ditto to what he said".

But Kyle Gray, a good friend and Pastor at NorthRock was relentless (for like five minutes). I told him I'd jump in the next time with a blog post and he called my bluff. So here we are. Things are about to get real, guys, so buckle up.

What has God done in my life? How has Jesus changed me? What is my life like as a believer in Christ?

This post would be easier if you wanted me to list the ways I haven't been changed, honestly. As a teen I was superficial. A perfectionist. A worrier. An obsessively FAIR person. Balance overwhelmed me. My parent's were split and I constantly felt the need to bridge the gap between them for my younger siblings' sake. In my mind, I imagine this circus seal juggling beach balls in the air for the thundering crowds— just keep them all floating and then smile wide. That was me. Over the years, my family and friends have commented how I suddenly stopped caring as much about being the smartest in school— that I suddenly quit being a brat and aged fourty years overnight. I was my grandmother's granddaughter, they said.

Except my grandmother was an alcoholic for years. I never knew that of course, but now I do.

My point is, I graduated high school a timid, depressed and dark-humored girl. I loved my family and friends desperately but there was nothing they could have done to stop my spiral. Friends, there is a point that is beyond reach for mere mortals. I burned with this kind of self hatred and fierce anger and hurt so far deep down inside underneath layers of fake smiles and baggy sweaters. Parent's worry about their children when they act out and scream for attention. I'm telling you, its much more worrisome when you have a child who hides their grief— internalizes it. I was on a road leading nowhere good, friends.

Then I met Jesus.

Fourteen years later and I'm still sorta timid on screen and that dark humor is still there, though I tend to channel it through my fictional characters. But I'm no longer depressed. I stopped trying to balance everything. I stopped taking responsibility for things outside of my control. I went to college and regained my childhood. I let Jesus be the dad I missed. I let Jesus quiet the voices in my mind that whispered I was doomed to be this way or that because of genetics or history repeating itself. I let Jesus create me anew and mold me into the young woman He knew I was capable of being. I let Jesus be my light. He pulled me out of the dark places in my mind and showed me the world He made for me. He gave me words and love and confidence and peace. So much peace.

Jesus isn't a fix all. I'm so far from perfect, you guys. Remember that post a week or so ago when I told you how I'm currently handling our family crisis with a generous helping of grace and F-bombs?

That's basically my motto for life. I suppose you could say, with Jesus, I've struck a new kind balance.

#NorthRock church is the best, guys. Seriously. I know many of you reading this live too far away to check us out, but if you happen to be in the neighborhood, NorthRock meets every Sunday at 9:30 and 11.

In the middle of the night

I woke up at one am to my little girl coughing. Weirdly, she never woke up... Not even when I gave her cough syrup and water, but anyways... I was AWAKE. Mike was blissfully asleep for the first time in weeks, so I eventually moved myself to the couch so I didn't mess him up.

I'm not usually a middle of the nighter. I fall asleep early and even more so lately. Like 8 o'clock early. Once I'm out, I'm out. Even when I wake up to distribute cough syrup or extra pillows or whatever, I fall right back asleep. Not so last night. My mind was whirring.

I thought, in my stupor, "I should write these things down. This would make for a great blog post." I mean, probably not, now that it's the light of day and I really think about it, but still.

Here they are:

I wonder if there's a home remedy for clogged ears. Alice's ear have been clogged a week, maybe? I should take her to the doc. But what would they do? Prescribe a decongestant? She's not stuffed. A little clogged, but... Totally different things. I should google this.

Peroxide in ears? Is that dangerous? I should google that too.

Not dangerous. I feel like this is something Mike could do. Ear wax squeebs me out.

Slippery underwear: not sleep friendly. Thanks for nothing Target.

Now my undies are probably on inside out. Way to get dressed in the dark, you weirdo.

Is the porch door locked? Patio? Patio or porch? Either way, did Jonah lock it earlier?

What should I make for the first small group Thursday? Energy bites? Is that too healthy?

I need to stop at trader joes for oatmeal.

School of choice for kids? Am I making too big a thing out of this? Should I keep driving them JUST so I can pick their school? Is that enabling them? I never chose my school as a kid.

Wonder is Mrs. Buckholz is still alive. Now that I think of it, it was probably Miss. Unless she got divorced! Whoa.

Probably not. Unless that was why she wore all those Medals For Heaven. Maybe she was overcome with Catholic guilt... teachers, man. They're real people too.

Anyways. You get the idea. I have to go to work now.

What keeps you awake in the middle of the night?

EP

Snapshot of Life Interrupted

So about a month ago, my mom was getting on my case about blogging again. She is like one of five loyal readers I've amassed over the last decade and misses my random posts.

"I can't, Mom, I need to focus on my novel writing. I don't have time (or the creative space) to do both. I tweet. I facebook. Read those."

Bahahaha. I know, RIGHT?!? *shakes head*

I don't have time. Oh, One-Month-Ago Erin, you're HILARIOUS.

A mere week later, maybe even less, our Hahn lives got twisted, curled, flipped-flopped, stomped on and wrung out. For those of you who don't read my fb posts or haven't picked up on my vague-tweeting: My husband, Mike, had a truly epic sledding accident on a truly steep and icy hill and dislocated both knees and tore basically every tendon imaginable in those knees. Turns out, that's a Big Deal and Very Rare. I'll skip over all the gory details because, ew, but suffice it to say, he won't be sledding, or walking or even standing on his own any time soon. And by soon, I mean at minimum two surgeries, months of rehab, a wheel chair, a walker and a commode lift-away. If you are a praying person, please pray for his spirits. He has yet to regain feeling in his feet and they say he might never recover that. It's those nerves, man. They be fickle little guys. But my handsome, extra-capable, outdoorsy husband needs to climb rocks and stand in water and operate chainsaws. He HAS to, it's what makes him glow— it's how he feels God's presence— it's where he finds his joy. (I mean, he loves us too, obviously, but he loves us even more when we're outside.)

This past weekend, we moved across town. We had planned to move anyway, just not for several months. Instead, we gave three days notice and packed up our lives to a place that has zero steps and wide doorways. I was *supposed* to enter my newest MS into a writing contest that day. It's sitting on this very laptop, basically untouched and disregarded right now. I can't sit still long enough to concentrate on my fictional characters. Those who know me, know this is probably the hardest part for me, personally. Those that don't might think I am being shallow. Artists, you know? We're super self-centered. Or rather, we're trapped in our own minds? *shrugs*

I sit at this moment in the waiting room of Mike's physical therapy. We should both be at work right now, but this is more important. Isn't that nutty? MORE IMPORTANT THAN WORK. Like, a month ago, very little was more important that our livelihoods.

Now, practically everything is.

Here's a snapshot of Current Erin: This morning I was making the kid's school lunches and breakfast. Again, we just moved, so I can't find anything in my kitchen on the first or even second try. Also, since we moved, in order to keep the kids in the same school to finish out the year, I am driving them to and from each day, so our timing is new. Once Mike is settled in his chair for the day, he's good. He's a strong and proud man with amazing faith and will. Honestly, he's incredible. He's just not able to help right now (for the record, he's always been a superb partner in parenting. Always.). So add to the kids the occasional patient request from my husband, "Can you please refill my coffee cup?" or "Can you put on my sock?"

I get distracted easily, lemme tell you.

In addition to all of that, our place isn't new. It's nice, but not new. So there are a few quirks that we need to report to maintenance. Such as the strip of laminate on the counter that catches on my sleeve every time I open the fridge and the bottom ledge to the cabinet that pulls off.

This morning, and every morning, Mike puts Jesus Music on the Pandora. We are still breathing by the ultimate, sloppy generous grace of God. There it is. Without Him, I'd be crazy. And not like fun crazy, like certifiable hot mess crazy. So I am flying back and forth between cabinets and counters and cutting boards like a lightening bug stuck in a jar and I'm signing praise music and loving on my Jesus and simultaneously dropping more f-bombs than this third grader I know named Omar (which is a LOT).

My life: Praising Jesus, depending on Jesus, leaning on Jesus and then dropping a sh*t-ton of F bombs.

Sorry, George RR, I'm not ready to commit...

http://insidetv.ew.com/2014/06/03/george-r-r-martin-ice-and-fire-publishing-plan-game-of-thrones/

So I've had LOTS of people recommend reading Mr. George RR Martin's works... LOTS.  And I admit, they seem right up my ally and unlike the rest of the civilized world, I do not have HBO so nothing has been spoiled for me as far as character deaths go (of which, I am told, there are too many to count).

Here is my problem:  I suffer from Post-Traumatic Harry Potter Release Date Stress. Or, if you prefer PTHPRDS.  Its a thing, I swear.  I spent a decade waiting for the releases of JK Rowling's books and movies. The series became a part of my life; the fandom, a friend.  It was all-consuming in a way that might not have been healthy.

I can't bring myself to do that again.

At least on purpose.  Rick Riordan, that sneaky bastard (In the best possible way. I love him. He is my spirit animal.), hooked me with the Percy Jackson books.  I thought I was jumping in at the end, but then he began a whole NEW series and here I am eagerly awaiting/mournfully dreading the NEW end this October.  Years and YEARS later.

So this article, that I linked above, means that for the time being, Mr. Martin and his series is nothing to me.  I get the whole "artistic license" thing.  He's the creator of this world or whatever so he can drag it out as long as he likes... but until he ends it, I am gonna steer clear.  Didn't he take five years between the most recent two books???

At this rate, I will be dead before the series is through.  So will he, for that matter... so that is worrisome.

Nope.  Sorry.  Won't do it.

This is actually happening

I have hit a milestone, my friends.  I spent yesterday afternoon, while Al was napping and Jones was Math-gaming (ie: his version of quiet time), brainstorming plot.  For me, this is a highly technical process that I perfected in my angsty teenaged years of sitting in a comfy chair, blaring emo music (via headphones, nowadays) and scratching out dialogue and random song lyrics in a big notebook.

HIGHLY technical. 

But, Erin, you say, that's just what every teenager does.  Sits alone, being gloomy/willfully misunderstood and listening to alt rock.

Indeed. Forget for a minute that I am thirty... er...thirty one. It works, right?

Back on topic, though, my MILESTONE. I started plotting out the last quarter or so of my story.  You know: where should I end this one and where to start the next one?  Do I resolve or just keep building, building, BUILDING tension towards a cliffhanger?  In making my decisions, I was struck with the startling realization that I am going to FINISH WRITING A BOOK.

And I am terrified.

In all my twenty years of wanting to be an author, in jotting plot bunnies down on scrap paper and jabbing them in random places, only to be found and puzzled over months and years and Major Life Events later, it never actually occurred to me that I could finish something. 

Of course the movies and their soundtracks have played endlessly in my head before falling asleep.  And I've perfected my NPR interview.  But to actually have the end in sight??? 

It is completely daunting. 

I need an agent.  I need to write cover letters.  I need to get rejected 7 million times, so I need to get started RIGHT NOW.

Of course, I still need to finish the book. 

And there are the other two books in the series that I need to be concerned about.

So I should just chill out.  And rest in the knowledge that God already knows how my particular plot plays out and He's written a fantastic story for me full of ups, downs and of course, cliffhangers.