#my book.

Proverbs 31:21

Everyone says your lies come back to bite you and I disagree.  Eventually, you build on lie after lie until even you believe it to be truth.  This makes things more interesting.  This makes things believable.  I don’t really mean to lie, I just do it, like word vomit I guess.  There’s a certain excitement within telling a lie, even if it’s a small one.  That small adrenaline rush you get with you trip, yeah, I get that same rush when I tell a lie.  It’s a high without side effects, mostly.

            Lies make the world go ‘round.  Advertisements for consumer products base themselves on lies: “It’ll slim you down,” in your mind’s eye.  “You’ll get more energy,” at the expense of health.  “Two for one,” while supplies last, of course.  Think about it, everyone who has ever told a lie got something better from it.  Pinocchio, he got a better sense of smell.  Stephen Glass became one of the most known newspaper journalists.  Bill Clinton got some nice nookie.  The liar is the champion of the free world.  The liar manipulates words and situations to create better ones. 

People tell lies to protect their loved ones; parents lie to their children to teach them things (tooth fairy, Santa, sugar bugs, etc.)  Euphemisms for death are sort of lies: he passed away or he is in a better place.  No, he’s dead.  In the ground.  And yet, everyone sees a lie as the taboo of the universe.  I see it as a gateway to a bigger picture.  Who knows? Maybe lies will take the place of truths.  Point is, everyone tells lies whether they’re big, small, or somewhere in between, and everyone has their reasons for telling lies.  Yet nobody believes the reasons.

            Let’s go back to when this all started, shall we?  Who actually remembers the first lie they told? You’d think no one would right?  I do.  I was about six, it was a Saturday, and I was at my brother’s hockey game.  Usually, I would roam around the hockey rink looking for something to do or playing in the arcade.  This time, I went into the pro shop and saw mini-hockey sticks filled with candy.  When I asked my mom if I could have one, she, of course, said no.  But I wanted this mini stick, I mean really, really wanted it.  So I took it.  There were no alarms, no signs it was missing, no one even seemed to notice.  Except for my mom.  When questioned about the stick, I of course denied taking it with a simple “I found it on the floor.”  Not my best work, I know, but come on, I was six.

            Ever since then, lying has been a part of my life as natural to me as breathing.  I don’t lie for attention or to make my life seem better or to try to fit in.  I lie to lie, simple as that.

            Back in the real world, I realized the power a lie could have.  A lie could make somebody love you or hate you.  It could make you seem big or small.  Cool, not cool.  A lie could have people hanging on your every word if you build it enough.  So I kept lying.  Eventually the lies took on a life of their own, just as the universe teaches.  But there’s one difference: I never get caught in a lie.  They say a person can’t remember their exact lie.  So, when someone asks about the lie they perceived as truth, the liar makes a subtle mistake, and the lie comes crashing down around them.  Not me.  I remember everything.  They say a person looks up and to the left when they tell a lie, avoiding looking into the other person’s eyes.  I can stare into your soul and still tell a lie.  People say detecting a lie is easy if you know what to look for.  And what do you look for exactly?  Psychological studies hold certain symptoms indicate deceit:  Adam's apple movement, blinking, defensive gestures, excessive sweating, reduced eye contact, fidgeting, and hand gestures, head movements, increase in pitch, longer response time, posture shifts, pupil dilation, shakiness, smiling, speech errors, hesitation, and unnatural gestures.  Try a few out; see if you can catch your friends in a lie.  Like I said, I don’t get caught.

 One.                                                                                                         

            School is one of those places where lies become a natural part of the day.  Forget an assignment? You left it at home. It wouldn’t print. Or for those of us who can come up with better ones:

            “Carson, do you have your essay,” Mrs. Nelson asked.  No I do not. Nelson doesn’t usually take my shit.  She’s too smart for the old ‘I forgot it at home.’  Well, let’s see what Ms. Carson Anderson can create this time.

            “Mrs. Nelson,” I begin and you can hear the guilt in my voice.  The unwavering eye contact I’m giving her really sells what I say.  “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have a hard copy.  My printer ran out of ink, and you know my parents are having a hard time.  I do, however, have it on my flash drive in my locker.  Would you like me to go get it?”  Now let’s see if she believes me. Ha. She will.

            “No, no, Carson,” she replies, “that’s quite alright.  You know I hate it when students leave my class.  Just bring it in tomorrow.”  She walks away and begins to chew out Jessica Landers for attempting to “lie about a dog she doesn’t even have.”  I told you I was good.

            “Goddamn Carson, I don’t know how you do it.”  Ryan Waters: AKA my best friend ever and the only person I don’t lie to.

            Time to get cocky. “Whatever do you mean, Sir Ryan?”

            “I mean, we all know you did not write that essay, and Nelson doesn’t take bullshit.  So, you did something.  What was it?”

            “Ryan, your significant disbelief of my academic achievements startles me.”  His pointed look shows me he doesn’t buy it, but why should he?  “Maybe Nelson has just fallen for my superior charm.”

            “Even I know that’s bull, Carson.  Despite what you want to believe, not every single woman is a lesbian,” he says with a smile.

            “A girl can dream,” I reply, “plus, you know Nelson was hot in her day.”

            “Still is.”

Ryan and I continue to lunch and take our usual table by the microwaves in the cafe.  I guess it’s our safe spot in the chaos that is West Venice High School, AKA the school with the most surfers/ jocks/ assholes.  Sure there are some tolerable people: myself, Ryan, our other friend Xane, and the new girl, Colby.  Speaking of Colby, here she comes.  All black, long hair, emerald eyes, fine body, cute button nose, full lips…

“Car? Cars? CARSON!” Ryan slaps my forehead to get my attention.  “Come back from planet babe, please.  You’re drooling.”

“Fuck you man,” I say, “I am not drooling.” I wipe my mouth anyway, just to be sure.  Colby continues to walk toward us, and I swear she’s staring right into my freaking soul.  Every lie I’ve ever told seems to flash by me and it’s all because of her.  She just does something to me, and I barely know this girl.  All anyone really knows is that she moved from Boston, lives with her dad, and doesn’t really say much to anyone, but she’s super smart and an incredible artist.  Colby stops in front of our table, immediately grabbing the attention of Xane, Ryan, and some jocks at the other end, while I become extremely interested in my cafe- produced cheese fries.

“Hey it’s Carson, right,” she asks, completely ignoring the eye rape of the guys.

“Y-yeah, that’s me,” I stutter.  Okay Carson, what the hell? You’re charming, you’re suave, you‘re not having a problem talking to girls.  “You’re Colby?”  I try to turn the conversation back to her.

“Uh-huh.  Listen, I hear you’re really good with stat and Mr. Lausin just failed me on another quiz.  I just can’t seem to get the derivatives of trig functions.  Think you can help me out?”  Her question is innocent enough, but I can see the gears turning in Ryan’s head.  I know what he’s thinking, hell, I’m thinking the same thing, and you know it too, dear reader.

“Sure thing, Colbs.  Whenever you want to get to work, just let me know, yeah?”  Very smooth, Carson.

Her reply comes quickly, “think you can help me now? I mean, we have him next period, and God knows I didn’t do the workbook.”  That is my cue to leave my testosterone- filled lunch.  I look at Ryan, and he nods, Xane gives thumbs up and waggles his eyebrows- pervert. I nod slowly.  “Great, there’s an empty table over here,” and there she goes.  What else is there for me to do but follow?

Two

            The next time I see Ryan, he asks for the full story of my “lunch date.”  So I give him the full story: We ate, I tutored, she aced Lausin’s test.  Did we have an actual conversation in the midst of all that fun?  Maybe.  Okay yes, and it was magical.  I’m kidding.  Although I could have easily deceived her, when Colby started to “get to know me,” I let her.  No reason to lie appeared to me.  She’s quite a complex individual.  Smart, witty, cultured.  Layers isn’t the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind.  And so the mysterious thread of Colby Masters continues.

“You think by now I’d understand this stuff.” Colby’s voice wakes me up from that lucid state of mind.  I’ve been tutoring her for about three weeks, and I think we are still at the square fucking root of one.  Maybe she’s faking stupidity in order to spend time with me, or maybe that’s just what I want to think.

“It’s really not that hard Colbs.  You just factor out the trig function, derive and solve for x.”  Sometimes I feel as if I’m talking to a middle school-er, and other times I laugh because her naivety is adorable.

“Well thank you for the text book definition, All-Knowledgeable Carson.” And that’s what I love about Colby: she wears sarcasm like a suit of armor, and has wit like a lance.  “I just don’t get where the integral comes in.  Whatever, let’s do something interesting.”

“Like what? Play Truth or Dare like twelve year-olds?” Sarcasm right back at ya, babe!

“You know what?  Yeah. Let’s totally play Truth or Dare.  Truth or Dare?”

Fine, I’ll humor her, only because I can tell a good story.  Remember what I’m doing here.  “Truth,” I say.  And let the games begin.

“Why do you hate Jessica Landers, and why does she hate you?”  Colby ends her question with a look so pointed I can’t help but laugh out loud.

“Definitely not beating around the bush, are we dear Colbster?”  She could cut through diamonds with the glare she sends my way, but there’s the little sparkle of playfulness that makes me realize this is a game for two.  “First of all, that’s two questions,” I say, “and secondly, we hate each other because of a bad break up.  We dated sophomore year,” lie.  “When she had the chance to be popular, it was good-bye Carson, hello dicks, dicks, dicks.”  Lie.  Don’t act so surprised, it’s what I do.

“You’re lying,” Colby says.  Those are two words I never heard directed at me.  Ever.  Were I to tell the truth, this conversation would not be half as interesting.  Hence the whole pathological liar bit.  But more importantly, how does Colby know I’m lying?  I am lying, but there’s no possible way that she could know.

“What makes you say that,” I ask.  I just have to play it cool, I guess.  No one’s ever caught me before, and she won’t be the first. 

“From my short time here, I cannot honestly believe she’d ever date you.  I mean, nothing against you, but Jessica Landers does not seem the pink triangular type.”  Colby makes a good point.  And she’s right.  “Plus,” she continues idly, “she doesn’t seem like your type.”

“My type,” I counter, “out of the minimal time we’ve spent together, there is no way you could possibly know my type.  My question, though pointed, assesses three major problems with her statement.  1. I don’t have a type.  2. She couldn’t know my type even if I did have one.  3. If I had a type, Colby Masters would be it.  Though it seems she’s adamant about her theory, so I’ll give it to her.  “Fine,” I say, “you’re right; we never dated.”

“So why did you say you did?”  Another valid question.

“Because,” I retort, “the real story isn’t half as interesting.”  Well, it sort of is, but if Colby wants to know, she can ask.  I keep no secrets, except, you know about the pathological lying.

Colby just waves off my sarcasm and asks, “so my turn then?”  I totally forgot about fucking Truth or Dare.  Colby’s smirk tells me she knows this.  Might as well continue on the path she’s set though.

“Truth or dare?”  This could get interesting.

“Since you took the pussy way out, so will I.  Truth.”

Here we go, “So what team do you play for?  You seem to know my position, and now I wanna know yours.”  Truth, shockingly enough.

One of the basic, primal experiences for anyone who writes is the rejection letter.  If you don't receive rejections, you probably aren't trying very hard, no matter how talented you might be at stringing words together into clever stories.  But think about it from the point of view of the rejectors -- why don't they like your work?  What is their rationale for the rejection that caused you to sit under the sink moping for 3 1/2 hours while eating M&Ms by the handful?

Neil Gaiman, one of the best sci-fi/fantasy/YA/graphic novel writers of the past two decades directs us to this blog post, which has a wonderful list describing how editors/agents/interns categorize submissions:

Author is functionally illiterate.

Author has submitted some variety of literature we don’t publish: poetry, religious revelation, political rant, illustrated fanfic, etc.

Author has a serious neurochemical disorder, puts all important words into capital letters, and would type out to the margins if MSWord would let him.

Author is on bad terms with the Muse of Language. Parts of speech are not what they should be. Confusion-of-motion problems inadvertently generate hideous images. Words are supplanted by their similar-sounding cousins: towed the line, deep-seeded, dire straights, nearly penultimate, incentiary, reeking havoc, hare’s breath escape, plaintiff melody, viscous/vicious, causal/casual, clamoured to her feet, a shutter went through her body, his body went ridged, empirical storm troopers, ex-patriot Englishmen, et cetera.

Author can write basic sentences, but not string them together in any way that adds up to paragraphs.

Author has a moderate neurochemical disorder and can’t tell when he or she has changed the subject. This greatly facilitates composition, but is hard on comprehension.

Author can write passable paragraphs, and has a sufficiently functional plot that readers would notice if you shuffled the chapters into a different order. However, the story and the manner of its telling are alike hackneyed, dull, and pointless.

(At this point, you have eliminated 60-75% of your submissions. Almost all the reading-and-thinking time will be spent on the remaining fraction.)

It’s nice that the author is working on his/her problems, but the process would be better served by seeing a shrink than by writing novels.

Nobody but the author is ever going to care about this dull, flaccid, underperforming book.

The book has an engaging plot. Trouble is, it’s not the author’s, and everybody’s already seen that movie/read that book/collected that comic.

(You have now eliminated 95-99% of the submissions.)

Someone could publish this book, but we don’t see why it should be us.

Author is talented, but has written the wrong book.

It’s a good book, but the house isn’t going to get behind it, so if you buy it, it’ll just get lost in the shuffle.

Buy this book.

So think about it: Forget about whether your book is good or bad.  Forget about the relative merits of your prose style. 95% of the things that agent, editor or intern reviewed all day were so bad that phrases like "neurochemical disorder" seemed appropriate to describe them.  How exhuasted must they be?  How cynical?

A few years back, I had an agent for an earlier version of the book that is the subject of this site.  An editor at Dial Books for Young Readers really liked the book, and it went up to a mysterious committee.  After an interminable wait, I received a bizarre rejection letter.   It began with "I was at the edge of my seat the whole time I was reading it" and ended with "best luck finding it the right home."  It was a long letter, filled with details that could only come from a deep review of the material.  I was devastated.

But then I began thinking about her comments, and I realized that she was kind of right to reject the book.  Her comments about the plot holes were dead on, and her suggestions for changes were great.  After all of the crap she had to read every day, my book was good enough that it merited a long, detailed analysis.  I shouldn't be mad, I should be thankful.  It might not be the right book for her imprint, but she saw something there and wanted to tell me about it.

That letter was on May 18, 2007.  I spent the next four years writing and re-writing that book.  It is, without question, a far better book, and will now be available for all of you to read later this year.  Would I have been happy if she had published the book all those years ago?  Of course.  Would the book have disappointed me today? Definitely.