This week, for the first time in the history of my blog, I had a tough time settling on a topic. I thought and thought, wracked my overwrought brain, thought some more, and came up with … nothing. Finally, I decided this was the perfect time to discuss my philosophy on … wait for it … writer’s block.

Don’t believe in it. End of story.

Writing, if you’re serious about it, is a job—same as any other. If you want to get paid, you get up and go to work. That’s all there is to it.

If you’re wondering about inspiration, the creative muse, or some other such nonsense, let me give you a great substitute for when the muse heads off to warmer climates: hard work.

No one ever said wrestling a story out of my head and onto the page was going to be easy, but whose job is easy? Practicing law sure wasn’t easy. Sanitation workers don’t have it easy. Why would writing be any different?

Sometimes the words take a while to start flowing, but that’s okay. Sometimes the characters speak wooden dialogue that rightfully belongs in a 1939 Bette Davis movie, but that’s okay, too. Sometimes I have butt problems and don’t want to stay in the chair to write, but that’s okay. I have to power through it and remember the book isn’t going to press tomorrow. Every word (most words) won’t be perfect, but who’s perfect?

Some people believe that “blocked” writers actually have impossible expectations of themselves. I think that’s right. Like Nora Roberts says, “I can fix a bad page, but I can’t fix a blank one.” If Nora Roberts has bad pages, what the heck am I worried about?

There’s another great writer’s quote that I’m sure I’m going to mangle, but here goes: “Writing is 100% inspiration, and I make sure I’m inspired every morning by nine-thirty.”

I won’t claim to be THAT disciplined, but it’s a constant goal.

The cure for writer’s block is to sit at the keyboard and work through it. That’s all I have to say on the subject.

Hopefully next week I’ll be able to think of a topic to blog about.

Several weeks ago I posted an entry, “Finished!” which dealt with the thrill of finishing the first draft of a book and my hopes and fears for said book. Remember? Well, it’s been a busy week for that little book. My agent sold it on proposal to Harlequin’s new Kimani line. I signed the contract this week and am thrilled to pieces.

But guess what? My new editor actually wants to read the book. The whole book. Not just the first three chapters and synopsis.

Unbelievable.

Now it’s time to pull out that manuscript, dust it off, read it, and fix it. The extra 5,000 words? Got to go. All those loose ends? Gotta tie ‘em up. Purple prose? It’s outta here. Bye-bye adverbs. Well … let’s not get carried away. Bye-bye MOST adverbs.

My mission impossible, which I chose to accept when I signed the contract, is to whip this manuscript into shape. By April 15th. Of this year. Less than two months from right now.

That’s where things get tricky. Before this I had all the time in the world to turn books around. Now I’ve gotta be both quick and good. Frankly, I’m not sure I’m up to the challenge. I played around with my first manuscript for, oh, let’s say a year. The second manuscript? Two-plus years. Third manuscript? Eleven months or so. This one? Less than eight months from start to finish.

Gulp.

I know what you’re thinking. Lots of authors churn out two, three, heck, even five novels a year. Nora Roberts, last time anyone checked, was up to three hundred books a year. Stop whining, Ann, you’re thinking. If Nora can do it, you can do it.

I just have this to say: Do I LOOK like Nora Roberts?

Oh, and one more thing. Just hours after I’d mailed off the signed contract to my Harlequin editor, my Kensington editor’s assistant called to say she’s sending me the copy edits to TROUBLE and expects them back on March 1st. Of this year. Ten days from now.

YIKES!

Since I don’t want to have to give back the advance money anyone’s paid me, I better get started. Well, no. First I’m going to eat about a pound of chocolate candy, wash it down with a brownie or two, and then I’m going to get started. Wish me luck.

Yesterday I went to my very first booksigning as a published author. I refused to let myself be deterred by the fact that I had no books to sign and handed out cover flats instead. If anyone cared about this lack of truth in advertising, they were polite enough not to comment on it.

I, along with many other authors, most of whom actually had books, gathered at the local Barnes & Noble to gab, eat chocolates and cookies, and check out each other’s books. I learned the following:

1. booksignings are fun, no matter which side of the table you sit on;
2. I am blessed to live in a community with lots of fabulous, friendly authors;
3. a good booksigning requires the consumption of an obscene amount of candy treats;
4. there are lots of pretty book covers in the world; and
5. a truly great booksigning culminates with me leaving the bookstore with a huge bag full of books I didn’t need but suddenly couldn’t live without.

I would write more about the joys of booksignings, but my stack of to-be-read books has grown exponentially and I really need to get started on it. But I will say this: I can hardly wait till July, when I can go to a signing, commune with great people, eat chocolate AND sign an actual book.

I started writing in July, 2001, after reading Stephen King’s great book, “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” and taking several months to digest it.

The first draft of the first scene of my first book, the one that never sold, opened with the hero and heroine meeting at a black-tie event and involved, as I recall, a lot of “declaring” and “flouncing.” That, I think, is enough said about that dark chapter of my writing past.

Thereafter followed three long years of writing, rejections, revisions, more rejections, contests, more rejections and eventually, as my writing improved, nicer rejections. Flying blind, with only the strange source of inner faith that blesses writers to guide me, I kept querying agents and wondering, as the rejections piled up, what I would do if every known agent in the world rejected my manuscript. I consoled myself with the thought that, by that time, another generation of agents would have graduated from agent school and therefore be ready and eager to reject the work.

Some agents wrote the ubiquitous and demoralizing “I just didn’t love your book enough to represent it.” Other agents took the time to write me a nice letter saying what they liked about the manuscripts and where there was room for improvement. Those kind words kept me going, especially during long periods where I wondered what the heck I thought I was doing trying to write books.

Sometimes I followed up on one of these kind rejection letters with a phone call. Under the guise of thanking the agent for her time, trying to get a better handle on the constructive criticism, yada, yada, yada, I would secretly try to charm her into representing me anyway, thinking that if I showed her what a lovely person I am she would cave in and offer me a contract even though she didn’t love the book. This never worked, of course, but I kept trying it. Love, shmove, I thought. I just wanted an agent.

But then, on Thursday, July 8, 2004, a sunny and otherwise inauspicious day, as I recall, my future agent sent the e-mail that changed my life. It said:

“Thank you for submitting 'Trouble.' I am loving it. Could you please send the full manuscript? I would love to have it as soon as you can so that I can finish reading…”

I couldn’t believe what I read. I blinked but the words didn’t disappear. Rubbed my eyes, checked the resolution on the computer screen. Still there.

Was this a joke? Was Ashton Kutcher punking me? Was there really someone—both a non-relative and publishing industry professional—who LIKED my book? Who was actually ANXIOUS to read more of it?

No, no, yes and yes.

Oh, she wasn’t offering to represent me just yet. Major, and I mean MAJOR, revisions were still needed to make the book sellable. More about that in a future post.

But guess what? At that moment I was so thrilled that major revisions hardly mattered. I discovered I really didn’t just want any agent. I wanted someone who loved the work. Who would go to bat for it. Fight for it. Nurture it.

The call, it turns out, is worth waiting for—especially if it comes from someone who loves the work and is willing to slog down that long, hard road to publication with you.