I float out of the room a short while later—minutes? Hours? I have no clue. I’m glowing, glowing. My fingers skim the walls, graze the nubby texture, the air. I laugh and the sound floats around me, hovers. I’ve got more energy than I can fucking stand. I feel like I could explode out of my own skin, race a few hundred laps around the neighborhood, and not even have to stop for air. But most of all, I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t find someone to talk to. I need people around me.

I take another step and stumble. Underneath my buzz, something slinks into my consciousness, something dark and dirty.

I brush my fingers against my lips, brush away the taste. Then shake my head. My hair whips at warp speed and I see black dots and lights. I welcome the distraction and do it again. And again.
Then I stumble out toward the comforting chaos of the party.

The laughter, the voices—they cover me like warm fog, fill every corner of my brain. I shove my way into the first group of people I see, just craving that feeling of connection. Shane’s telling some story about a practical joke they played on their coach, and I start laughing hysterically. The sound roars around me. Musical. Free.

Shane grins and ruffles my hair. “Gee, I wonder what you’ve been doing? I can’t believe anyone ever thought you were such a goody-goody. Slacker.”

Of course, if you know me at all, you’re not buying that for a second.

All right, fine, I’ll ‘fess up. I mean, querying blunders–everyone makes them. We’ve all heard the story about the overeager writer who called the agent’s office for a status check on his query(cringe!) or sent a package of live hamsters to go along with that cute hamster picture book she was pitching (Okay, I might have made that one up—but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had happened. Because, you know, nothing says represent my book like a box of dead rodents).

Seriously, though—if you’ve made a querying/writing oopsie, you’re not alone. And to prove it, I’m gonna share some of my more special moments with you.

1) I might have cold-emailed this author my first chapter and asked for her input. No, I’m not making this up. In my defense—at the time, I had no idea such behavior was frowned upon. I’d just read about her on an agent’s blog and thought she sounded really cool. And the author, lovely lady that she was, actually responded with a crit! Unbelievable, really, how awesomely supportive so many fellow writers are. Of course, when I sent her ten thousand follow-up questions, she ran far, far away, but that’s another story.

2) I might have sent a different writer I read about on the same blog my query letter to critique. Again, I didn’t know her, and again, she totally responded. I’m thinking maybe she suspected I needed medical help.

3) I sent out about 15 queries for my first manuscript without having any other writers read it. Just a few friends and my mom—yep, I’m *that* girl. On the plus side, I did not mention that my mom liked it in the query letter. But that’s probably just because I didn’t think about it.

4) When I got two full requests from those queries, I did not attach a title page. I suppose it could have been worse—I could have sent that box of hamsters.

5) I decorated my query letter envelope with puffy paints and stickers, and enclosed a photo of myself. Yeah, okay—I totally made that part up. But I bet *somebody* did it!

And now for our first topic:

Writers as Artists: How do you define yourself as a writer? Are genre writers artists?

Oh, wait, I know this one! Is it–I write therefore I am? No? Curses! Gee, Cory, way to toss us a softball to start with! This isn’t one of those profound, put on your tweed blazer, drink herbal tea and ponder the universe type questions, is it? Because I’m an epic fail at those. OMG, do you remember the “what is the meaning of beauty” essays in your college philosophy classes? MEEP!

Um, we had a topic, didn’t we? Sorry. Writers as artists, check. The answer for me is kind of two-sided, actually. On the one hand, yes, I consider the majority of writers, whether they are published, attempting-to-be-published, genre or literary, to be artists. I mean, they’re all creating something, right? And isn’t the end result of creating = to art? But then, if you were to ask me if *I* consider myself an artist, I would probably spit tea all over your shirt. There’s just something so pretentious sounding about that term when you apply it to your own writing. Or maybe it’s just me—I’m weird that way.

But yes, I do view genre writers as artists. In fact, in some ways, I think it’s harder to be a genre writer. There are more rules to follow while *creating*, which lends itself to a unique set of challenges that pure “literary” writers don’t always have to address.

Let’s try another way of looking at it. Painters create all types of pictures, from beautiful landscapes to portraits to OMG, what the heck *is* that crazy-looking thing?, and yet we rarely question if painting is art. I think it should be the same with writing. It’s just that one author might create lovely, evocative, thought-provoking imagery, and another creates kick-ass action sequences, quick-witted, realistic dialogue, or heart-tugging love scenes. One author might spend pages telling us how the ocean is a metaphor for death, and another shows us how the Evil Octo-flounder Monster causes death by injecting toxic ink into beachgoers big toes. Whether you value one above the other is pretty personal–the whole “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” thing.

Also, since writers didn’t traditionally fall under the term “artist” at all—it was reserved more for the visual and musical arts—I thought I’d ask two YA writers who *are* traditional artists about their take on writers as artists.

From Cindy Pon, author of Silver Phoenix and creator of lovely Chinese brush art:

“writing is definitely a creative endeavor.
we weave stories, paint images with our words.
and stories can elicit emotion, just as music or
paintings or sculpture–any form of art can.”

From Gretchen McNeil of YARebels awesomeness, a former opera singer represented by Ginger Clark:

You see, writing is all about craft… (sorry Gretchen—couldn’t resist) No, here’s what she really said:

“I think of art in two distinct categories: creative and interpretive. Most people disagree with me here, but opera, classical musicians, actors – I consider them to be interpretive artists, meaning that they are interpreting someone else’s work. Still hard. Still requires a shit ton of dedication and practice, but different than the creative artists – the writer, poet, painter, composer – who is creating something from nothing.”

Okay, and now comes the part where I tie everything neatly into the book I’m reading, Plot and Structure by James Scott Bell…um, yeah, it really doesn’t tie in at all. But even the process he describes of brainstorming the ideas, getting them on paper, and creating an entire, compelling book out of them carries the implication that the writer is an artist. Because, what it all boils down to is this: we create.

Well, I think that’s about all the time we have for this post! (See what I did there? I distracted you with pretty quotes and authors and books, and totally evaded the first question. Maybe Cory won’t notice….)

And please, check out what the other participants had to say on the topic (undoubtedly something way, way more profound than the random brain spew I just subjected you to!)

It’s fairly rough, so bear with me. This story is about a girl who used to have everything together, a girl who was totally under her parents’ control. And then one day she exploded. This isn’t from the beginning, but somewhere in first third.

“Where’s Jake?” I stumble into the table and hit my hip, almost drop my beer. No pain. No pain, no gain. I giggle, even though I have no idea why that’s funny. The laughter freezes in my throat a second later, though. My hip might not hurt, but inside, I’m dying for a fix. Just a little something to boost me back up. No big deal. Anything will do, anything at all. I’m not picky these days.

Sarah laughs and tries to bounce a quarter into a cup. “You’re so obvious. Jake had to bail for awhile. Jones is here, though—in the bedroom. He can hook you up for a price.”

A price? Shit. I drain the beer in my cup, but it’s doing nothing for me, not anymore. I might as well be drinking Evian. “I’m broke. Will he take an IOU?”

Sarah’s laughter explodes like a bullhorn this time, forceful and way too loud. I wince as the sound splinters in my ears. “You’re shitting me, right?” she says.

Am I? I don’t think so. Maybe I’m missing something here, but I’m too restless to figure it out. I jiggle the cup on the table, jiggle my leg. I can’t stop moving.

Sarah sighs. “Just go back there. I’m sure you can work something out.”

Joy blooms in my chest. Work it out, that’s it. I’ll work it out. As I turn to leave, Delissa collars my wrist with her hand, throws an angry look at Sarah. “Hey, that’s not cool—the girl is wasted. Look, Kaylin, I think you should just wait here for Jake. He’ll be back soon.”

Yeah, but that’s the thing—I’m not wasted. Not wasted enough. I jerk free and stumble away in search of Jones.

Past the group of guys smoking in the family room. Past the couple making out in the hall. The closer I get to the bedroom, the faster my heart beats. Anticipation curls my fingers, writhes likes frantic worms in my gut. I’m almost there. It takes three or four grabs for the doorknob before I finally manage to turn it.