Timeline of Discovering a Young Writer and Dangling Her under Agents' Noses

Wherein you stumble across a very talented, very young Australian YA writer named Steph Bowe, suggest she approach some US agents, and a very happy ending ensues.

some unknown date in June 2009: You've been perusing reviews of a novel you adore, DUST OF 100 DOGS, which are mostly on teen's sites, and follow a link and find a blog called Hey! Teenager of the Year. It's well written, with a quirky and memorable photo of the author, Steph, standing on one leg in a boat on the lawn, sort of a crossing the Potomac moment, and you begin to follow the blog.

at various points during June, July, and August: You mention this blog in an entry called Some Fantastic Websites for Writers. The blog's author posts and critiques first pages and you send a sample to see if your book appeals to young readers; Steph posts it as First Pages #9, and politely says she would keep reading. In mid-July you repost her "20 Things I'd Like to Say to Different People," which you find brilliant in many ways. You send her a correction on a URL; she sends you a blog award, which you post and say This kid is an incredible writer and reader, and if I were an agent, I'd have my eye on her now. You suggest she enter an agent's contest for guest bloggers, and then YELL at her via email for not selling herself better, thereby revealing yourself as the critical and pushy person you are. She redoes her entry. (You enter, too, but this agent chooses neither of you.)

Aug. 27: Steph asks for beta readers for her novel; you respond, and she sends the manuscript.

Aug. 28: You send the critiqued manuscript back with 2 1/2 pages of single-spaced notes and 148 comments, and, because you love her writing and have never seen such raw talent, the apocryphal words I’ve heard it’s difficult to get an agent in Australia, and maybe you’ve already considered the possibility of being repped elsewhere. When you’re ready, I’d be happy to steer you toward agents if you don’t already have someone in mind.

Aug. 29: Steph responds in the affirmative.

Aug. 30: You email an agent friend, saying you have found a very talented young YA author, and include her first 250 words and a brief description of the novel. Agent immediately asks for a full. You are a tiny bit startled, and relay the message to Steph.

Sept. 1: Steph returns from out of town, where she has completed the revision, and sends the manuscript to Agent.

Sept 1-4: Steph wants to query the other two agents you've mentioned, so you email them as well, and glance at her query letter. You also suggest entering a Secret Agent contest, where some participants get a partial or full request from an agent. Then Agent 2 asks for an immediate full; the other soon asks for a full.

Sept 7: The 250-word Secret Agent submission is due at noon your time, 2 am in Australia, but Steph is out of town. Without regular internet access. You have the recently revised first 250 words of her novel because you reviewed the query they were attached to, and because of the narrow window for submissions you're allowed to submit someone else's entry. But you cannot reach Steph so don't actually have her permission. You take a deep breath and hit the send button. You cc Steph with a note, hoping this is okay, knowing it can be rescinded if she so chooses.

Sept. 8: Steph is happy you sent in in contest entry. Agent 2 offers.

Sept. 9: Agent 1 offers; the other agent passes. Phone calls with both interested agents are scheduled. You email lists of questions to ask. Steph wonders if she should withdraw from the Secret Agent contest if someone offers; you tell her no, and say What if the Secret Agent is someone phenomenal and wants to sign you? (More apocryphal words.)

Sept. 15: Phone calls are complete. Steph vacillates. Emails fly back and forth. You try hard not to tell her what to do, but agonize in private. The Secret Agent asks for a full.

Sept 17: Steph emails, Oh crap. The Secret Agent has offered representation. You laugh like an loon and tell her it's always great to have options.

Sept. 17-22: Hair-pulling and still more deliberation ensues. Steph consults writer friends, parents, grandparents, and her dog. Enough emails are exchanged to form a short novel.

Sept. 23: Steph signs with Ginger Clark of Curtis Brown.

And you heave a great sigh of relief, and you are very very proud and happy. You couldn't be prouder if this were your own child, this teen over in Australia whom you've never met and have never even spoken to on the phone, who has written a book aimed at young adult readers that nonetheless speaks to you in a way few books have.

I'm a Stickler for Getting Facts Straight

The main character in my upcoming novel, LEARNING TO SWIM (Shaye Areheart Books), is devouring fresh blackberry pie and I think Wait! Are blackberries in season then? and I look it up and discover that pretty much the only fruit in season in that particular town in that particular month are apples. And I'm not crazy about apple pie, so my character isn't either(I eat vicariously through my characters). So now it's just homemade blackberry pie - perhaps made from frozen blackberries, certainly not that canned goo.

Yes, I'm a stickler for getting my facts straight.

I know that no matter how careful you are, you're gonna slip up - or your readers will think you have. Part of my novel is set in Ottawa, and I had one beta reader lecture me that the RCMP would handle a specific issue and helpfully send links to all the Canadian law enforcement organizations. Hello? I talked to the Canadian police and to the RCMP. I have their confirming emails to back it up. But I'm resigned to the fact that my Canadian readers may think I'm getting it all wrong, although I clearly explain law enforcement jurisdiction.

The same beta reader told me emphatically that there could not be a discount Gap store in Lake Placid, New York, because the Gap never puts outlet stores in resort towns. Hello? I lived in Lake Placid for years - I bought plenty of clothing there - and the store is still there!

In some cases, I've learned to write around the facts instead of including them. The Ottawa police tell me that the parents would not be included in the interview of a small child. Yow! None of my American readers are going to believe that without laborious explanation, and maybe not even then. So I delete the scene of the child on the parent's lap during the interview, and let the reader fill in the blanks. Canadian readers may know the parent is not there; American readers will assume he is. They're all happy.

I look everything up: Does Stewart's still serve chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream? At what time of day would the late Lake Champlain ferries cross paths? What is the water temperature in that lake during the summer, and how deep is it? Do the locks in downtown Ottawa lower the water to get boats to the river, or raise it? Is Di-Gel available in Canada, or is there another brand? How would someone without an OHIP card get a doctor's appointment in Ontario? What flavor bagels are available at Great Canadian Bagel, and what's the closest one to the airport?

I wiggle with some facts. I alter the Lake Champlain ferry schedules slightly, and hope no one will whip out ferry schedules (which do change slightly from year to year) and go berserk. The Ontario police tell me that only one detective would interrogate someone at a time; I want two detectives in the room, so I put them there. (Maybe they made an exception that day.) I need a phone booth at or near the Port Kent ferry, so I put one there. (I don't know if there's one there or not, but will check.) Women in Québec married since 1981 are not allowed to use their husband's last name, even if they were married outside Québec (really, I'm not making this up) - but they can use it socially, so I take advantage of that loophole.

And how many steps is it from a particular house in Lake Placid to the Stewart's store up the street? The house is based on a real one, so I have a friend make the trek and count the steps.

Although I'm sure someone will think I am wrong. At least I tried.

To the Manly Men Tossing Beer Cans on My Road

It seems to me that if you are manly enough to zoom down my narrow quiet dirt road chugging beer and tossing the cans in the road, you should be man enough to drink real beer. Not Bud Light.

It's sort of like showing up for a street brawl wearing a pink Polo shirt. One that's tucked in. It ain't right.

How to Springboard out of a Bad Mood

I've been in a funk lately, for a thousand small reasons. Big issues, I can deal with. I spring into action and problem solve, whether it's an injury or a sudden work crisis. But the minutia of people who are frustrating and home repair that's not quite working out and a string of small disappointments can be immensely wearying.

Last night, I moved past all that.

Apparently shaking off a pervasive bad mood involves, first, wrestling an overstuffed sofa out of your office. This was a job I'd been eying for some time. It had taken two hulking guys quite a while to get it into the room; it was a tight fit and had to go around two corners. I had two advantages: first, since it got in the room, I knew it could get out. And I knew that the door and interior door molding had to be be removed, so out came my handy power drill and a pry bar, and they were gone.

Spatial orientation is not my strongest suit (falling in the same category as car-backing-up) so I tried it one direction before deciding the sofa needed to be flipped onto its other side and worked around the corner the other way. Both I and the sofa got stuck a few times, but I managed to squiggle free, and eventually realized it was crucial to hold the sofa completely upright on its end to manuever it through.

And I did it.

Mind you, it's now stuck in the hallway, but this requires brute strength to hold it upright and push at the same time, presumably from two bodies, so it may have to wait until help arrives.

Second, you read a lovely blog post by a young writer whose novel  so impressed you that you steered her to four agents, three of whom promptly offered representation. And it's a funny and happy post, saying lots of nice things about you, with congratulations from dozens of people, and you realize that this falls into the category of truly good things you have done in your life. And you feel good.

And third, in the background, you watch Survivor, a show that delights you for many reasons that you may explain another time, and which tonight features two participants exhibiting jaw-dropping psychopathic megalomania and low-brow racism, plus a participant who is so oblivious to any most basic social conventions that when she visits the opposing camp she patronizingly tells them what they're doing wrong and how defeating them is so easy it isn't fun. Why this is satisfying to me I am not sure, but perhaps it's the quiet knowledge that (a) this odious behavior is now revealed to the viewing public and (b) surely the clever people on the team will realize the vipers in their midst and take them down.

And somehow it all dissipates the horrible mood that has been hovering over you, and you sleep well, and wake up more ready to face the world than you have been in a long time.

And Now She Has an Agent

I've been skirting around this topic for the last week or two, but now it's official and I can announce it: my friend Steph Bowe from Australia has just signed with Ginger Clark of Curtis Brown for the YA fiction novel I had the pleasure of beta-reading recently.

I loved the manuscript so much I suggested she contact some US agents (knowing from reading an Australian agent's blog that it's difficult to get representation there, and knowing that YA market here was promising) and suggested a few. And then suggested she enter the Secret Agent contest over at Authoress' blog Miss Snark's First Victim. And urged her not to drop out of the contest even after she got her first offer of representation. I think I said Heck, wait and see - what if the Secret Agent is phenomenal and wants to sign you? (See what I mean about not closing doors?) 

And she ended up with three offers and ended up choosing, yes, the Secret Agent, which means I have some oddly prescient abilities. I cannot wait to see her novels on bookstore shelves - this one and the ones that follow. This is one of those cases where you feel phenomenally lucky to have witnessed the launch of someone's career.

Did mention she's 15 years old?

For Those of You Wondering About Miss Emma

Emma, my much beloved golden retriever/lab/and maybe greyhound mix, had a cancerous growth removed from her mouth earlier this year. There were some odd shadows on her Xrays, so I think the vet feared the worse. Emma, we decided, was on her last legs.

Apparently not. Apparently the Xray shadows are just, well, what you get when you are 13 years old. This is Emma a few weeks ago, the last day of her summer here in Vermont before she headed back south for the winter.



And if you look closely at the end, you will see my Teva-clad foot nudging her to try to get her to move (it is a video, after all). Notice that she did not budge. That is Emma. Implacable, immovable. Immensely lovable and forever puppy-like.
  
And I promise that I will soon blog about something besides my dog and shampoo. Like maybe about writing. Or the trees I've been cutting down in the yard. Or the culvert I needed to get replaced. Or something equally mundane that I will endeavor to make sound fascinating. In the meantime, go read about my friend Quinn Cumming's adventures in jar-egg eating. Somewhat gross but hilarious.

And This Is Pure Joy

Bridget is an Australian cattledog, born to an abandoned and nearly starving mother, so she has a birth defect that necessitated removing the cartilage in one ankle. So running and walking are a trifle painful. But she loves, loves, loves to swim, and fortuitously I live next to the river. So this is what we do every sunny late morning. (This was filmed with my trusty Canon digital camera, so it's not the best quality.)



And because I am a sappy dog mom (and so you don't think I always have to urge her to swim), here is another clip.

And Now I Know: There is a Difference

For years I didn't pay  much attention to what shampoo I bought. For a while I used a brand that "brightened" your hair, so in summertime I looked nearly full blond in the right light. But that brand disappeared, never to be seen again.

Then one of my German summer exchange students left behind a bottle of Garnier Fructis - then not available in the States, at least not in Tennessee where I lived at the time - and I mentioned in email how much I liked it. Both of them shipped me boxes of it for Christmas. So for quite some time I used Garnier Fructis.

For a while I liked Aussie shampoo and its lovely purple bottles, but then it got complicated, with choices that included "Cleanse and Mend," "Moist," "Sydney Smooth," "Opposites Attract," "Catch the Wave," "Sun-Touched Shine," and "Awesome Volume."

Did I have a dry do? Did my mane need moisturing? Did I have frazzled tips? Did I need silky, soft hair? Did I need strong hold? A naturally radiant do?

I had no idea. My hair was neither particularly dry or frazzled, and I wasn't sure I wanted silky or radiant or a strong hold. I just wanted shampoo. To wash my hair. I went back to whatever was on sale.

I knew to avoid shampoos that mentioned the word "volume," having been blessed (or cursed) with extraordinarily thick and wavy hair. Volume was one thing I knew did not need. Increased volume might have made my hair so voluminous that I could have lifted off and flown, like Sally Field in The Flying Nun, when the wind hit that wing-shaped nun's hat (which Wikipedia tells me is called a cornette).

And although Sally is now of an age to be peddling anti-osteoporosis medication, my abiding image of her is in that nun's habit and cornette, flying brightly across the TV screen. (Note to young actors: Think twice before accepting just any role - do you want to see that image of yourself a few decades from now?)

But recently on a visit to my secret Scratch n'Dent store, SO pointed out some shampoo in austere green bottles, something called Avalon Organics. That's good stuff, he said, although he certainly said it more intelligently than that.

Because he has exquisite taste, I bought a few bottles, although it didn't seem a phenomenal bargain.

And then I used it. And wow. It truly, truly makes a difference.

The problem is that the real price of this shampoo is, well, not insignificant for that not-large bottle (and nearly three times what I paid), and it may never again show up at my favorite secret store. And even when my book advance check shows up, I don't know if I can make myself spend that much on shampoo.

Although maybe I can. Because I really like it.

What Advice Would You Give a Kid Trying to Decide on an Agent?

Seriously. This teenaged writer is immensely talented. She queried three agents suggested to her, all three took the full manuscript of her YA novel, and two made offers. (FYI, getting an agent doesn't usually happen this easily or quickly.)

She likes them both. Both are reputable literary agents, with different strengths.

I've supplied lists of questions to ask (notably, what changes do you suggest for the manuscript and how do you see the book being marketed) and she has talked to both agents and exchanged numerous emails - meeting them in person is out of the question, as she lives on a continent far, far away. And she's waiting to hear from a fourth agent who requested the manuscript after seeing her first page. Of course she's talking it over with her parents, but the publishing world is new to them, and she's the one who will be working with the agent, presumably a long time to come.

The best advice I've been able to give her is: Ask lots of questions, sleep on it - and go with the one it would make you sick to your stomach to turn down.

Readers? Advice to offer? Questions she should ask?

So Is This an Odd Form of Courtship, Vermont-Style?

 I am walking two of my dogs along the dirt road where I live. Because it is narrow, when I see a car approaching, I step to the side and pull the dogs in close. As the car nears, it slows, and as it passes the driver tosses out two red objects that land at my feet.

It probably says something about my brain that my first thought was Firecrackers! and the second was that someone had tossed two red-cased shotgun shells at me. I am whirling around to view the receding car when it registers what the objects are: two red dog biscuits. So I have just enough time to change my intended angry gesture (no, it would not be smart to gesticulate rudely at someone who has tossed either firecrackers or shotgun shells at you, but rational thought does not always prevail) to a friendly wave of thanks.

Yes, someone has just driven past me and tossed out two dog biscuits for my two dogs, someone who happens to carry dog biscuits and happens to be skilled enough at tossing things out the far-side passenger window to have them land precisely at my feet.

SO, when I tell him, suggests this was flirting. This, to me, holds no logic. I was only vaguely aware that the driver was perhaps male. And being a completely typical female when it comes to car makes and models, all I could tell you is that it was a ... car, not a truck, not an SUV, and not Vermont's state car, the Subaru. So if it were flirting, it would be remarkably noneffective. Now if there were a phone number or business card attached to the biscuits, but, no, they are just plain dog biscuits.

And my dogs eat them when we get home, and no one gets ill, and I am left to ponder on what it all meant.

Win a Signed Copy of NOTES FROM THE UNDERWIRE

Here's the easiest contest you'll ever enter: Over at Quinn Cummings' blog The QC Report just answer the question What should couples do to determine compatibility before actually dating?

Winner gets a signed copy of Quinn's book (which I love), NOTES FROM THE UNDERWIRE. Okay, I don't like the cover, but that's perhaps because it reminds me of a trauma during my teenage years involving my mother deciding one hot summer day to remove her shirt and to mow the back yard in her bra.

Quinn didn't mention a deadline, but she usually posts on her blog once a week or so, so I suspect it'll stay open until then. And the contest is open to people overseas as well as the US (USPS Global Priority Mail is cheap - you can cram two books into the flat-rate small box, 'cause I just did, delighting my New Zealand friend Cat Connor with her own copy of NOTES).

Now I Know What Sort of Mom I Would Be

I've always scoffed at overprotective parents, thinking Don't they see how they're holding their child back - can't they see that they need to face this on their own?

But then two teenage writer friends submitted entries in the Secret Agent contest at Miss Snark's First Victim - a brilliant contest where you submit the first 250 words of your novel to be reviewed by a literary agent whose identity is revealed at the end, when a small number of people get partial or full requests.

And some of the comments from readers make me want to go in there slugging.

One of the young writers has entered the opening to her moody, evocative novel set in Poland. One reader doesn't like that baby is named Krzysztof. Another says I didn't like how you called money "zlote" in one sentence and then "money" right after - and I want to yell Yes, because it's a specific reference in one place and a general reference in the other. (Okay, this I did cave in and point out.) One says The writing is not smooth, followed by suggestions I consider clumsy. Another admonishes the author for adding a comment pointing out that the chapter title (chapter titles weren't allowed to be included) would have made clear the setting.

And I want to go to each of these people individually and throttle them while explaining - very nicely, of course - how insensitive and imperious and rude they are.

And then one reader says

I loved it and wouldn't change a thing. I liked the voice. I liked the flavor. I liked the mood you created and the tone you set. It's evident from the very first sentence this is not America. The voice you created made me think immediately of Russia or an eastern European/Communist country.

And I relax.

The other teenage writer enters the prologue from her contemporary young adult novel. One commenter says: I feel like this is being rushed just so that you can get to the resuscitation in the first 250 words for this contest. And I want to leap in and say, No, you idiot, this is exactly the length this prologue always was, and she's not a cheesy writer who would alter her work to make it contest length.

Other readers whine about it needing more emotion or the narrator isn't upset enough - or do not figure out that the narrator is a female - and I fume. But manage to hold my fingers back from typing in responses.

But then one commenter says:

I'd want to read on, for sure. My impression of the MC [main character] is that she's rather emotionally distant, frozen. As well as fatalistic, and I want to know more.

And I want to chime in and say Yes, yes, you've got it - what's the matter with the rest of your morons? But I don't.

So I've learned a lot from this, and from the other entries and the comments. One is that many people are not careful readers or careful commenters. Another is that some people seem to enjoy that imperious sense of sitting in judgment - and don't realize or care how they may be hurting the writer. This in turn makes me all the more aware of my own comments (if I think an entry simply dreadful or in a genre I can't judge, I just don't comment).

And I've learned that if I had teenage kids of my own who got attacked by rude teachers or by Facebook friends, their theoretical father would be having to holding me back on a daily basis from springing to their defense.

Because, yes, I do believe that kids learn by dealing with their own issues.

But damn, it's hard to sit back and watch.

How do you moms - and dads - manage it?

Update: I am pleased to report that both my surrogate daughters - oops, I mean, both the talented teenage writers I know - got a "I'd keep reading" from the Secret Agent, which only 16 of the 51 did. And one of them, Steph Bowe of Australia, has signed with the agent, Ginger Clark.

It Doesn't Have to Be This Hard

I recently read a manuscript by a young author - gripping, heartfelt, and funny. It had a few conversations that lagged, a final chapter I thought could be dropped, and tweaks needed here and there. But it was good, really good, with passages veering toward brilliance, and she completed a revision in three days. Then I saw her query letter: crisp, to the point, with an cogent short description of her book and her credentials. Close to perfect.

And she's only 15.

I'll soon be reading another manuscript by another young author, who is eager for a critique and suggestions for pacing and character to help her revise this novel - her eighth. She's 17. After she wrote her first novel and queried agents without getting one, she self-published and turned a profit - at age 13.

Both these young women go to school and blog and have extracurricular activities and family obligations, so while they're not out working earning a living, they're busy.

I see many query letters in my online writers group, and with rare exception, they're awful. They're rambling and off-point, with grammar errors and lacking pertinent info. The writers have completely lost track of the fact that agents want good manuscripts and make their living selling books. That this is a business proposition. That the writer shouldn't be a cringing supplicant (unless the book is really bad, in which case cringing won't help).

I have occasionally critiqued manuscripts only to discover that most people don't actually want the feedback they asked for. They've had friends tell them how lovely their writing is, and don't want to consider that their manuscript might need work and simply can't be sold the way it is - they don't understand that revision is necessary, that writing is rewriting. Or else they simply don't want to take that next step.

Why and how does it all become so difficult?

Years ago I worked as a correspondence writing school instructor. The application had open-ended questions like Tell us about something significant in your life and often the responses were delightful - warm and lively, engaging and clear.

Then I'd get their first assignments. Thud.

When it came time to actually "write" they froze, perhaps because of years of horrid English teachers or ratcheting self-doubt. When they didn't think about it and just answered a question, they were fine. When they tried to write, the result was dreadful: stilted and trite and nearly unreadable.

Do we have an innate confidence and ability to self-correct in our teenage years that we later lose? Do all the things that happen to us later in life erode our sensibilities so that we can no longer directly pursue what we want: write a decent novel, tell a good story, listen to suggestions and make it better?

Over at Murderati.com, Toni McGee Causey has a great post about confidence. In it she tells the story of a doctor telling a patient to change her behavior, saying You don’t need to understand why to change the behavior... Choose. We can always explore the why later. But make the choice. And keep making it.

So let's choose. Let's choose to write our books and revise them and sell them. Just do it. Yes, it will get tough at times - because of other obligations and the self-doubt we've developed from years of evil English teachers or bad partners or horrid employers or parents who were masters of the put-down - but just do it. And if your first book is too awful to see the light of day, rewrite it (that's what I did) or ditch it and start another.

And if you find yourself flagging or getting stuck, go read the blogs of Steph Bowe and Weronika Janczuk, two teenage writers whose output and dedication would put most of us to shame.

What's Worse Than Having Nearly Identical Book Covers?

Having a book signing side by side with the other author.

After seeing my post about duplicate covers found on Pop Culture Junkie, my friend Persia Walker tells me that for the cover of her first novel, a famous painting was used - it had been used for nonfiction titles, but not yet for fiction. And a few years later she and another author ended up at a double signing, side by side, with duplicate book covers: she with her wonderful novel HARLEM REDUX and Diane McKinney-Whetstone with LEAVING CECIL STREET.

 

She said the double signing was a lot of fun - but it must have been somewhat confusing for shoppers. 

Note: And because I can't resist not knowing things, I looked this up: the painting is Blues, 1929, by Archibald J. Motley Jr.

What to Do When You Get Bad Reviews

Or, Brad Meltzer Is Brilliant - and His Grandmother Adorable

So What's With the Duplicate Covers?

So there's only a limited number of photos available for book covers? And different publishers can use them at will - without knowing that another somewhat similar book is coming out with or has already used the identical photo, cropped differently and perhaps with the color enhanced? There's no records, no database showing who else has used the same photo? Yikes.

On the left we have FLIRTING WITH BOYS by Hailey Abbott, published by Harper Teen in April 2009, and on the right is THE SECRET LIFE OF PRINCE CHARMING, published by Deb Caletti, Simon Pulse - in April 2009. Oops.

GIRL MEETS GOD, by Lauren F. Winner, a memoir, (Random House, 2003) used the same cover photo as the paperback edition of Andrew Trees' novel ACADEMY X (Bloomsbury 2007).

I found these on Pop Culture Junkie, by Alea, pointed out to me by the sharp-eyed, ever-researching SO. There are more:

BUNCO BABES TELL ALL (2009) and CUTTING LOOSE (2008) used the same photo of three "babes" running into the surf, but it's not as egregious because the covers have other elements besides the photos. And DISCOVERING PIG MAGIC by Julie Crabtree (Milkweed 2008) uses the same kids-on-dock photo as Judy Blume's HERE'S TO YOU, RACHEL ROBERTSON (Laurel Leaf, 1995) - but in a different format, and 13 years apart. (You can see Alea's comparisons here and here.) And Popsicles with one bite gone are apparently hot, and no less than three book covers used the same shot of hands loosely clasped.

If my young adult paperback came out the same month as a certain other young adult paperback, with essentially the same cover - I wouldn't be exactly thrilled. Yikes.

Note: See my new post about authors Persia Walker and Dianne McKinney-Whetstone ending up at a book signing side by side with nearly identical covers.

My Steel-trap Memory Comes in Handy

... when SO's inkjet printer dies mid-project and I remember from previous deaths of Epson printers past that if you call in you'll get access to special discounts, and that if you mention the new ink cartridges you just installed now rendered useless, Epson will send new ones. And after he finds the printer he wants for $99, normally $199 ($129 with rebate) I remember that usually you can find a discount code online; we find one and it works, and presto, a powerful new five-in-one printer for $89, free shipping, with four extra ink cartridges.

Of course a few days later, inspired by my recent failure-to-fax debacle, when I try to purchase one for myself, it's sold out.

While Epson's inkjets frustrate me as all inkjets do - with their phenomenal waste of ink (take apart your next broken one and look at the giant tampon-like pad in the bottom, soaked with spilled ink) and the ink cartridges that fit only one or two models and aren't really out of ink when they tell the printer they are - this customer service is laudatory.

And my ancient Epson 5700i laser printer, the first model with USB connection, is still chugging along - while the Dell laser I bought for its faster printing speed has since died a sad, grinding death.

When Technology Goes Very Very Bad

Yesterday I discovered I needed to file a specific form to get a fat rebate on my property taxes - by Sept. 1. Which, yes, is today.

Okay, not so bad, except that I'd taken an extension on federal and state taxes in April because I knew if I stopped to do them I wouldn't finish my novel revision, so I had until Oct. 15 to file. But this specific other form has to be in Sept. 1 - and to complete it, you have to have your taxes done.

I can't file the form online because I'd already filed part of it back in April, but not the magic second part that qualifies me for my property tax rebate. So I make a phone call and a nice lady named Crystal tells me I can fax the form, so I won't have to drive the two to three hours to Montpelier to deliver it in person - and if I put my phone number on it, she'll call me and let me know it arrived.

Because I've learned that Things That Can Go Wrong Often Do.

So I lug the piles of paperwork from their hiding places in my nonfunctional office, and set up a work place in the kitchen/dining area, surrounded by portable files. And by evening, I get the bulk of the work done, and start back up this morning. Mid-morning I hit a glitch when I discovered the sum I thought I'd simply moved from one fund to my IRA last year had somehow been designated 100% CAPITAL GAINS. Pure profit. Several phone calls and delving through years of data fortunately stored online later, the capital gain becomes a small capital loss.

Now it's early afternoon. I plow through the rest of the paperwork and fill out the new form to be faxed. It's 2.45. I try to scan the form so I can fax it, and realize I haven't downloaded the scanner software on this newish laptop. Easy peasy. With that done, I scan the four pages and save them as a PDF. Then I open Windows fax software - and discover that this newish laptop does not have a phone jack. None.

OK, I go find the clunky old Dell laptop with dead battery and plug it in. I find a flash drive, one of those annoying ScanDisk ones that tries to be its own little computer with little programs that do who-knows-what - but I just want you to act as a suitcase for this file! - and I copy the PDF. I plug the flash drive into the old slow laptop, which does have a phone jack. I open Windows Fax, fill out a cover page, and try to fax. It whines and shrieks, but doesn't send. I fiddle with prefixes and area codes. Finally I unplug my free Ooma broadband phone line - apparently VOIP doesn't work well for the data packets that make up faxes - and plug in my landline, to which I've fortuitously added 12-cent-per-minute long distance for when I have power failures. Voila, it sends!

I wait to hear back from Crystal. I decide to try to send it again to be safe, directly from this computer. I carry in the scanner and attach it to the old laptop. It doesn't recognize the scanner. I reload the software. I try other USB ports. No go.

Crystal still hasn't called. It's nearing 3.45. I'm getting vaguely nervous.

I search online and find a free trial offer of eFax, the version that lets you send faxes via email, and set it up as quickly as possible and send off the PDF again.

It's nearing 4.00.

The phone rings. It's Crystal. The fax has arrived, all blank except for the cover page.

I hang up the phone. It is 4.02. Her office closes at 4.30. If this form doesn't arrive by then, I'm out $2,000. And the nearest Staples or Kinko's is 30 to 45 minutes drive away.

So I call my tiny town hall, and yes, they have a fax machine, and I leap in the car and arrive at 4.08. She gets the fax sent by 4.15. I spend ten minutes on the phone trying to reach Crystal to see if it arrived, and at 4.24, find a woman who goes to check, and tells me that yes, my fax arrived, and since it's there on Sept. 1, I should be fine.

Back home to my dogs, who wonder what all this franticness has been about, and why I've left laptops and scanners on dog crate and dog bed.

And I resolve to buy a fax machine or multifunction apparatus that will let me do everything. Maybe one like this.