How This Writing Thing All Began

Many, many years ago (at least 12 or so), I wrote a novel over the course of a weekend. Maybe that's a stretch--the novel, not the weekend. More like a novella, but I did start on Friday evening and finished Sunday evening. I wrote the darn thing because an item in the national news bothered me, getting under my skin so deep it itched like multiple mosquito bites, which in turn formed itself into a work of fiction that flew out the tips of my fingers and onto the PC screen.

I messed with the thing off and on for a time after I finished, and even asked my bestest friend in the whole world--a lifelong authentic writer with real experience--to take a look at my creation. Looking back on the experience, she was kind. Very kind. She tried her best to soften the blow of how badly it was written--painfully redundant and superfluous--and in her pity pointed out the good parts. I listened, took some things out, made recommended changes, and then decided to submit it for publishing because, you know, it was such an excellent story, and my passion superseded all its faults.

Oh, my face reddens as I recall my naivete. It doesn't help that I'm probably one of hundreds of thousands who have made the same mistake. Of course it was soundly and immediately rejected, as it should have been (depth of passion notwithstanding).

The feedback gave me courage to sit down and write another book. After all, the rejection letter was handwritten by a real human and everything, so that first book must have contained some merit. Right? Right? If you listen closely with cupped palm to ear, literary agents and editors are snickering behind their slush piles.

The second book didn't proceed too far as the story petered down a path that ended up in the brambles and bushes. It's a decent story, but it needs a ton of work, and my passion also petered out down the same path. Hmmm, maybe I wasn't cut out for this writer thing after all.

God had other plans.

One night as I readied myself for bed, ideas literally popped into my brain, like being stuck outside with hailstones slamming down from the sky. "What if ..." and it took off from there. (Sorry, I can't divulge my "what if" because it would be a major spoiler if you end up reading my book.) "Wow!" I thought. "What an idea! That would make such a good story." So the next day I plopped back down in front of the computer screen and pounded out whatever the old brain came up with. I worked on it and tweaked it and sent it to my good friend once more. She read it and proclaimed that she couldn't put it down, it was that good. Not perfect, mind you, but decent.

About the same time, I learned of an upstart independent press looking for books to publish. With all submissions, they would provide a free critique. What an amazing blessing because I was still naive, wet-behind-the-ears, hadn't taken the first writing class or bought the first writing book ... Agents and editors now chuckling out loud while simultaneously responding to hopefuls, "Sorry, this isn't for us."

I didn't receive an outright rejection this time. What I did receive was an eight-page, in-depth critique of the manuscript. The editor proclaimed that half of it was "dead wood," but buried in there was a decent story that needed a lot of work but still worth fighting for. He/she (don't know which to this day) encouraged me to work on plot, pacing, and character development, and then resubmit.

The only problem became ... how the heck did I learn all that stuff without taking expensive and time-consuming classes? Because I still worked full-time as a medical professional. I emailed the publisher and asked these very questions while explaining that I'm a self-starter, learning rapidly from well-written, instructive books. She, in turn, graciously answered ... Writers Digest. Go to Writers Digest, she said, and they will have all manner of books on whatever subject you need. To this day, Goldie Browning, I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.

Next post: my journey from that point.

The Birth of Perrin Birk

Perrin Birk sprang forth onto the earth February 2014--flung from my mind after exhaustive research. What a labor that was! Let me back up and share her story.

I'm an author-in-waiting, or AIW, which simply means I've written a book and have high hopes that one day that book will be published so readers who like the story enough will pay hard-earned cash for it. And tell others so the cycle blossoms and continues in perpetuity. In which case I will graduate to the title of full-fledged author. However, first things first.

I've heard from reliable sources (literary agents come to mind) that an AIW must establish an internet presence by the time the AIW is ready to submit the novel to agents or editors. The story goes that if the agent or editor likes the book, the next step is to google the AIW's name and see what comes up.

I google-searched myself. An extensive list popped up connected to my professional medical name. "Oh," I thought. "That will never do. What confusion will entail as innocent reader tries to find Author Me, and all they get is Medical Professional me?"

The obvious answer to this conundrum? Publish under a pseudonym.

This is where Perrin comes in, and the story of how she came to be.

 Winchcombe, England

During the spring of 2013, I--a Yank from the States--traveled the beautiful country of England. When various folk heard me speak, they knew right away I was not British. What with inquiring minds also living in parts other than the U.S., these same folk would ask, "Where are you from?"

When I answered, "the States," they seemed doubtful, then said, "You look Scandinavian. Are you sure you're not from Sweden?" or something like unto it.

"Let me check my passport," I replied. "I may have made a mistake." I didn't really say this only because I'm not that quick on the draw. A trial attorney I could never be.

Bibury, in the Cotswolds, England

I related the above to my husband upon my return home. He must have filed it away in a miscellaneous brain space, because he pulled it out almost a year later when we discussed my pseudonym.

"Hey, remember how all those people thought you were from (fill-in-the-blank Scandinavian country)? Why don't you pick a name that would seem to have its origins there?"

Clever man.

So for the next several days I searched websites of Swedish/Norwegian/Danish names and came up with several combinations. For each possibility, I not only googled the name, but tried Facebook as well, the goal being to come up with something that hadn't been used anywhere for any reason. I wanted whatever name I chose to be associated only with me as an author. Selfish, right? No, more like, no confusion equals happy readers. Well, that and an excellent story well-told.

The journey for Perrin Birk was as difficult as choosing a baby name. Hours of research, followed by hours of Google, then the litmus test--Facebook. I can't remember how many names I really liked that I had to ultimately discard. Once I picked Perrin Birk--and it passed the aforementioned tests--the tongue tried it on for size and author fit, and family members decided whether it looked like me or not. Buying the domain name cinched the deal. It was set in, well, not stone but something as equally everlasting--cyberspace.

After birthing Perrin, eventually she needed her own Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/perrinbirkauthor/?ref=hl

and website (not up and running yet)

and Twitter account-- @PerrinBirk

not to mention a blog she can call her own. Since you're reading this, evidently you've found it.

Whew!

And you thought authors just wrote books ...