Want to get published?

The Truth
Let's speak some truths about writers. Writers write. That is just what we do. However, there are three categories of writers; there are those who write for the hussle and bussle of being published; those who do it for the fun of it, published or not; and those who just don't care. For those who don't care, this blog is not for you. I am going to focus on the first category. 
To read up more about those who do it for the fun, please read my blog, "Writers write."

Get Published
"Good writing is useless if you don't know which market will buy your work," taken from Writer's Market. The mistake most writers make is to first write and then look for the market. This is the other way around. It helps to know how to pitch your work when you know who you are writing for such as the young adolescents, female or male population, romance, thriller e.t.c.

We writers write for the love of writing

and if we attract an agent/editor/publisher, then its all good. However if you believe in what you write but you don't wish to take your writing by the horns, your writing might remain just that- your writing; unpublished.
In other words, to be published means to get involved in the chase before even scripting the black ink on the blank paper; do your research.

(Foto: relationship-economy.com)

 Good writing, Knowledge, Professionalism, Persistence
The best book I can refer you to is the directory, "Writer's market" edited by Robert Lee Brewer. In this book, you get thousands of listings for publishers, editors, literary agents, and lots of tips about writing and publishing.
In the 2012 edition of the mentioned directory, I learned that there is no true guideline to become a successful writer but if one puts a couple of elements together such as good writing, knowledge of writing markets, professionalism and persistence, one can have a well-paid career in writing.
Do I believe what I read? Yes.
The chase of editors and agents and publishers might be a long one BUT if you do your research before beginning, you would catch the right attention. Why? Because publishers are constantly looking for materials to publish. Also, without writers, editors as well as literary agents won't get their pay checks. They need your work. However, they don't want to waste their time reading the wrong materials.

Get on it
So how do you do your research? Nowadays there are many lists online set up according to genre and agent qualifications. All you need to do is take your time to look around, get the right idea of the population you would like to target and begin your search from there. You begin to contact the agents/editors/publishers.
Many agents/publishers would ask you for a synopsis or query letter. These are information you type up in a particular format in order to help them get an idea of the type of writer you are and the sort of material you want to present.

The stricter you are on yourself about narrowing down your genre/target population, the less rejection letter you would get.

Other things you could do to get the process going is to join literary agents mailing lists in order to get posts from them. This way, you get into the mind of an agent; you understand what they are looking for and once in a while, information to help you be a better writer. I find this agent to be very informative; Rachelle Gardner.
Above all that has been said, if you really want to be a published writer, do your homework and then focus on writing for the love of it.

Questions? Please do not hesitate to leave a note in the box below or simply email me at funkeojowriter@gmail.com. HAPPY WRITING :-)
  

Sow a Seed of You

Ever heard the saying, « we are made in twos? » How many people actually believe that? How many people believe that you could travel halfway across the world and actually meet someone that looks JUST LIKE YOU?

Personally I find that to be a slap to creativity. I am not saying that it's impossible. However, are we ready to buy the idea that the creator of heaven and earth of whom till today, humanity is still trying to comprehend could be so behind on productivity that he would create two people with the same image and qualities? We are not speaking about mono-zygotic twins here, although many identical twins still have their own differentiating identities either in thoughts or attitude.

Moreover, this does remind me of the day I found out that myself and my cousin have the same names, only reversed. I am Funke Nike Ojo, and she just happens to be Nike Funke Ojo. We look nothing alike but it still bothered me that we have the same names. Unfortunately, I only discovered this after my grandfather who gave us our names had already passed away, may he rest in peace; so I couldn’t pick his mind. May I call it lack of creativity? Fear of originality? Selah.

If you wake up one morning and you step out your door to find your neighbour across the street dressed up JUST like you, traded her car to be just like yours, color her hair to match yours and even sound like you, tell me –will this flatter you or freak you out? (I am curios about your thoughts on this).

What I would like to drive at is the fact that most of us humans that are into the entrepreneurs’ world do our best to be unique. We search for ideas that will make our work different from any other. So to think that there could be someone somewhere that could look like me and possibly act like me is kind of disappointing. I am me.

 (Foto from: www.healthylifestylesliving.com)

Yet with the struggle to be the only marked pea in the pod, there is still a fraction of humanity that doesn’t want to brand their name in the world. They just want to exist and disappear. Why?

Honestly, I have heard many reasons from “I just don’t want to” to “I have nothing to offer,” to “someone is doing what I want to do already.” But really?

Regardless of the excuse, I would like to be the voice that says, “although there is nothing new under the sun, there still is a grand room for improvement of what has been.”

A mind that seeks for uncommon creativity belongs to a body that will never go hungry -tweet that!

I believe that we have been given different backgrounds and cultures because what one person learns whilst growing up could be a solution to another’s problem. So dare to be yourself; sow a seed of you.

I am curious about your response.

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(Funkèojowriter@gmail.com)

Deportation is no Taboo

This is a success story. I decided to write this post in response to the fear people have for new opportunities. Fear of the unknown is natural yes, but what happens if you take that step and you stumble across gold? I want to touch on the sensitive part of the word DEPORTATION.

What does it mean to be deported? To be deported from a country simply means to be displaced or removed from a country; planned or for other cases, unplanned . Also this is known as being "forced" out of a territory. Most people will tell you that being deported is the worst thing that can happen to an immigrant. But is it really? Or is it a way of being told that it’s time to move on to another project? Another life? Another atmosphere? Another greater opportunity?

Last year alone, over 450 000 immigrants were removed from the US (www.ice.gov). I cannot tell you how many of these immigrants left the country with melancholy moods, regretting every step that has caused them to be removed from their country of choice. But most arrive in their motherland with a story like "ahh, I just came home for a break. I will be going back soon." Liar! You have been given roughly a decade to stay out of the particular country. A decade or more to revise your life plan really. Now those that don't get the point would attempt fighting the law; spending more money than intended and most likely loosing, because in the end you would have to return to your country to file an appeal and wait for the authorities to either approve or disapprove the appeal. But is it really worth it? 

You see I am a believer of trying something new. I am an optimist. By the way, if you haven't heard of this great guy Robert D.Smith, it's time to discover him. He wrote a post not too long ago about starting over. A new start is nothing to fear but to embrace http://www.therobertd.com/its-time-to-start-over/
"Daily, you have to start over in so many areas of your life" -Robert D. Smith.

Back to our subject, why is the word "deportation" a taboo???
It is a taboo because of the stress put into traveling in the first place. Well put aside the fact that most developing countries are highly populated with individuals looking for that place where the grass is greener; many of these people borrow and spend a lot of money in the first place, in order to travel. When they leave their countries, put in mind that they are now referred to as “aliens” until a solid legal residency is attained in their country of choice. So they are already encumbered with how to get rid of the title “alien.” This is more money spending. Also, imagine how many of these people leave seeking for a better life for their families.

Deportation has become such a taboo because people take pride in anything that looks like success, and being removed from a country against one's will does not look like moving forward. Or does it?

Let me share a bit of my story. I lived a good life in America for 10 years as an immigrant; at least to me, I was living a good life in spite of the fact that I was going to school and paying 3 times more of the tuition rate than any American Suzy-Q would pay. I did all I could to stay in school due to my visa, a F-1 visa which is given to proclaimed students. Now, if it was my choice to go there on such a visa is a different question. I was barely fifteen.
Now, working 2 jobs and diligently paying my taxes, as well as leaning on the proceeds of my creative writing, I managed to make ends meet as a Biology major/Nursing minor student. I wished to be a doctor with great bedside manner. I stayed as far of trouble as I could, was part of a church choir and really just staying out of trouble because you don't have to search too long to find trouble in my neighborhood.
From making plans to be the best I could be, I landed behind bars in the Erie County Jail in New York; not a detention facility, no. The jail where they put sex offenders, drug traffickers, rapist and the likes. Oh boy did I have the fright of my life!
The issue at hand was that my visa expired. How did this happen? Due to advice given to me from one of my school's international students’ advisers, as well as personal issues; and the result of being caught with such was deportation. Now being deported also had its own long process which I didn't mind but did I have to do time for it? Really? Really?
 

Honestly speaking I had no problem going back to my country; I had no reason to not want to go back. I just thought I could focus on my mission, accomplish it then move on. My story was different.
From the jails horrid experience, I went back to my country where I saw opportunities literally EVERYWHERE!! You think American armies are the only ones that could be all that they could be?? My country, Nigeria has greater opportunities to be all that you can be. The green grass I was looking for was on this side of the ocean. With my parents and husband (oh yes I got married also in America to tell you how much I was building my future there) we drew up a plan for success.
Wanna know more about how I found my success? Subscribe to my blog for follow up posts

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My upcoming book, "My American Dream"

This is my upcoming book's book cover. Picture by Francois Radermecker

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A Writer writes: Read all about it

You dont need to become a writer, you just write. That is a paraphrase from a dear author I just came across, Jeff Goins. Quite an inspiring fellow. If you want to be called a writer so badly, you only have do one thing; write. Now I dont mean that you write one article and then you wait for a publisher to come knocking on your door, and if the publisher does not come by, you put your pen down and fold your arms. What does that make you? Someone that's afraid of what the public might say without a recognition that can defend you. You are also doubting your writing. Or perhaps you are writing for the wrong reasons.
I personally went through a period where I completed a manuscript and knocked on all publishers and their mothers' doors but got no good news. Yes I stopped writing for a little while because I began to doubt my ability. Instead of creating more work, I got stuck on that one manuscript for about a year. A breakthrough came forth that helped me to keep writing. I stumbled across a blog that kicked my rear end. Yes Mr Goins, your blog.
Writers write. That's what we do.
Free yourself. Writing is an escape route for most of us writers really; you free yourself into the letters that fall onto your page like pieces of your hardship shedding away little by little.
Also, it is no surprise that the best selling authors are the ones that speak their minds as it is.
I write for the love of the art, like Jeff Goins and many more who care to express him/herself without caring about who might disagree; be it a reader, an agent, a publisher...
What if I decide to write for example, about homosexuality? Lets face it, in the world that we are in today, there are claims that homosexuality is now common. But is it really? No, its still a subject that makes some poeple raise an eyebrow. Back in the days...okay back in the days of my grandmother, a spade is a spade. A woman can not marry a woman, full stop. The belief is a man sleeping with another man is wrong because if God had intended to make it alright for the same sex to touch each other in places that unleash romantic dragons, there would have been some changes in the making of the universe and its entity. Something like this for example could have occured in the garden of Eden...
"Adam I shall make you two help meats...one that feels soft and tender and the other that has moustache hair to caress your very own moustache face." or something like "I now pronouce Adam and Steve to go forth and be fruitful and multiply." I believe in the days of my grandmother. I believe that the preaching of the apostles in the bible is right. So what do I do? I write about it.
This had been at the back of my mind for a long time but because I had thought over and over about what the world would say about it, I kept quiet.
The issue here is, do i believe in what I write or is my work based on emotions? As a writer, I must be able to stand up on my work.
For a little side track here, the maker of heaven and earth does NOT hate homosexual people; He hates the act because by design, God intended for man to marry woman. He despises the fact that His design is being abused. Just like an architect that gives rules to the builder and comes back a week later to find a night club instead of a bank. Whatta??!! I can only imagine the frustration.
Now, for all writers that are hiding behind what needs to be glass but decided to paint it to be as opaque as possible, stop keeping what you gotta say and let the world read all about you. Emelie Sande said it in Read all about it, theres no need to be ashame, you've got the light to fight the shadows....so write.

For we are all pregnant with a story

Funkè Ojo.

Extract 2

“Please follow me ma'am,” she hears and she sheepishly follows, full of the uttermost level of fear. Then the lady she is following turns around and says, “we will call you shortly,” motioning for her to take a seat. Fear, because she knows neither what is to come nor if she has made a mistake. Her stomach makes a horrible grouching noise. She is not sure if it is due to the fear emotion or hunger. All she has with her to eat was two noodle packs that would need cooking.
Before now, she had been taken to Toronto for four days. She got a chance to speak with her darling at a detention house she was taken to, but as she was instructed by the lawyer (the wife of her uncle’s pastor-friend) that she had to limit the amount of time she calls Alex because invisible eyes would be watching her as well as ears within the walls. She was to pretend to not know anyone at all in Canada, because she is to pretend to be just an abused refugee. This according to the lawyer would raise her chances to be helped. She stuck to the plan and whenever she did call Alex, she spoke the battered French she knew, hoping that could make some difference for her situation. The place she was taken to was a motel-looking institution only for detained refugees. Other ladies were there, happily living their lives before the judgement day arrived to announce what was to become of each one. Funkè heard that there was girl that had been in the institution for over a year, still waiting for the Canadian government to issue her stay-papers to her, which made her stomach tighten even more. She is not planning on being anywhere away from her husband for so much of a long time.

“That is not my portion,” Funkè pronounced under her breathe. She missed Alex so much. She never got a chance to speak with him as she would have wanted and had no idea whatsoever of his whereabouts. She made up her mind to be patient because according to the lawyer, this was the routine for all individuals demanding for a refugee status.

So now she is taken back to the border for the final decision of an approval to enter into Canada or not. A lady in black uniform starts to approach her. The lady has no expression whatsoever on her face. Then suddenly, Funkè hears so loud in her eardrums, what seems to be the American national anthem. 'It can't be,' she thinks to herself, now feeling her fingers and toes going numb. The woman gets closer and closer. She motions Funkè to come along with her. Funkè takes the chance of asking if the woman could hear the American National anthem, to which the woman denies. Silently, Funkè follows and is led to a room where she had a short chat with an officer about why she wants to live in Canada. The officer did not smile at her entrance, “please sit,” says he. She sits on the edge of the chair, not knowing what to expect.

He goes straight to the point, “I am very sorry but your request was denied!” she hears. She hears a sentence that would determine her future. So simply put. No comma, no emotions, just simply said as a routine. She tries to continue listening but all she could hear is the American National anthem in her eardrums. ‘It cannot be!!!’ she screams in her mind. As she zooms in and out of the man speaking, she feels as though she is spinning into a dark hole. The man sitting down with her paperwork in front of him is saying, pointing to a paper with a pen,

“I would have to get some officers to escort you back to the United States of America right after I take your fingerprints on this spot.” The American national anthem now begins to fade off in her mind. Another officer approaches her, asks her to bring her hands forward as he clips two metals on her wrists to lead her into an American Police car. Tears begin to find their way to the surface of her eyeballs uncontrollably. She sees her world shattering slowly like the waterfall of the Niagara Falls from a distance. She knows she would not be seeing her sweet husband anytime soon.

She feels like she is trapped in a world of a nightmare that would not pass away. One second she is being hauled from the back of a van with bars behind the driver in case the passenger in the back seat goes crazy and did regrettable things. The next moment she is being filled up by a large African American woman who boomed out, “spread your legs!” Funkè obeys.

“This your real hair girl?” She nods. “Here’s your uniform.” Orange. Funkè stares at the uniform. “They ain’t gon put themselves on you girl, next!” A male uniformed officer leads her into another room to change into the orange uniform and hand over her own clothes, with whatever else she has on her. The tears seem frozen in her tear ducts. Still shocked with unbelief, she merely follows the instructions being yelled at her and some other young ladies. Maybe she is being punked or something.

Caged behind a ten foot tall, fifteen feet long and seven feet wide room with nothing but an iron-made bed, an iron-made toilet and cold floor, Funkè begins to come to some realisation of this crazy occurrence.

She sits on the hard bed, trying not to remember how she ended up like she did. All she could do is rehearse to herself about how life was so unfair. How she has been betrayed. It just could not be possible. Is there still a God or did the world go into extinction and took God along without her knowledge? It is  right now beyond her wildest imagination to be sitting in jail. Jail? Seriously?

It seems as though she has been chasing after the wind and really, there was a possibility that there is no God. How did this happen? She prayed didn't she? Herself and her husband prayed for guidance. How did they not see this ahead of them? According to her, she lived a good, carefully planned life. Gets into no trouble, and definitely concerned about being heaven-bound by treating other people rightly and praying always.

Not able to contain herself, she begins to scream.

She screams so loud that three lady-sergeants show up in front of her cell.

“Whatta hell is going on withchu you young lady, uhn? Whatha hell?!” exclaims a blonde, green-eyed lady in uniform. Funkè is sitting on the hard bed, facing the door of the cell, saliva dribbling from her mouth onto a rough itchy, gray blanket they provided her with to keep warm.

“I’m talking to you gurl, why you scream like that?” she stares at Funkè, expecting some words from the skinny black girl with eyes puffed up enough that you could barely see her brown eyes, and oversized orange outfit that swallows her figure. The young black girl says nothing but to stare back, trying to make sense out of it all. The other sergeants merely stare back at her with what looks like disgust for getting them to get up, missing whatever show they were engorged in on the television.

“Uhrr, I hate this shit,” says one of the sergeants, “am gon return to my unit ladies,” and she walks away as the other follows. The blonde sergeant stays behind turning to take a look again at the young black girl who begins to rock back and forth with her head between her flexed knees, feet on the bed. “Hey you, are you ready to talk about what just happened?” She gets no answer. She waits a bit more, and then walks away hissing and shaking her head. ‘Damn this crazy-ass job,’ she thinks to herself.

Funkè just could not believe what is happening to her. She needs to get out of here, and get out fast, tell someone she is innocent, did nothing wrong and continue her life, revised. What did she do wrong anyway?

The only clear memory she has is that of the last face she saw before the nightmare began- Alex.

'Oh my God, where is he?' she thinks in despair. None of them knew how this dilemma started or how it would end, 'where is he on this dreadful face of the earth,' again she thinks, desperately in need of some answers.

The screaming has stopped and so has the interrogating blabbering sergeants.  Funkè drifts off to think more about Alex. The only person she had learnt to count on for the past two years of their relationship. Really, her only trustworthy family now. Family! Humph. That word just seems too confusing; so full of hope and yet disappointments. Its traditional description just doesn’t seem to fit into her world too well. Everyone appears to know a lot about pretending to love her. And there she was, always wanting to please all, especially those she put on a pedestal, allowing herself to be stripped off of her rights; her uncles, aunties, mother and father.

Extract taken from upcoming book, "My American Dream"

Your support means a lot

Extract from ch. 1 "My American Dream"

Extracts in awaiting the book "My American Dream" by Funkè Ojo

It was around midnight when Alex decided that the day was still not over, so he called Funkè to meet up with him. They snuck out from each other's separate homes to meet at the park close to Funkè’s place. Alex was staying with some friends and Funkè, with her uncle and his family. The park was just like the one they are in right now, quiet with an attractively warm Arizona weather. In fact pretty much the same, except there were about two other couples in the park “romancing” each other in their own ways at different avenues of the park.

“So what are we doing here me dear” Funkè mischievously asked the man she is so ready to run to court with the next day to sign those marriage papers. Thanks to God she decided to finally and seriously ask the elders in her church if they could join her in prayer to find out if he is the ‘right one’ for her. Plus, she had a long talk with her best friend, Naomi who had known her longer than any of her other friends and thankfully Naomi had a big smile on her face for approval, when she finally met Alex. So, now that her pastor who was also her uncle, had agreed to take part in blessing her marriage, she married Alex in a small but classy way.

If the people close to her had all disagreed, what would she have done? Elope? Nah... that's not like her. She is one young lady that soothes the word, ‘God fearing.’

“I want to do thangs to you, my perfect lollipop,” said Alex, pulling her towards him and placing a juicy kiss on her forehead. Then he worked his way close to her, massaging his full African inherited thick lips on her soft lips. “What will I do without you my lovely beautiful wife to-be?”

“I am sure you can do a lot of things without me honey,” she tried to resume the little game going on but all of a sudden he got more serious than his playful self. He looked her in the eyes with the help of the street light above them, “I would definitely not be the same, my queen.” She playfully pushed him away and let out a giggle, saying, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Oh, I could think of a whole lot of things,” said he, actually looking like he was thinking about a couple of things, “oh yea I got some ideas. You want me start showing you?” said the good-humored Alex that she knows. He is like a dream that you just don't want to wake up from. What with his beautiful big eyes that are saying 'get closer’ or his broad shoulders that he got from training to get a black belt in Tae Kwan Do and on top of that, he is a computer genius! What?! Did she go gold-mine hunting and got lucky digging the spot where the raw diamonds are buried? His ice melting touch sends chills down her spine and warms her up in such a way that if it was zero degrees outside, she would not need a heater when he is around. Too good to be true, right? That is exactly what she said. A good and God fearing man he is; however, she knew that if not for continuous prayers lifted to heaven, the marriage seminars and singles’ seminars she had always attended, she would be less sure of herself-

          “What are you thinking about?”

“Uhn?” she was cut off guard a bit. “You have that look in your eyes like you are deep in thoughts,” said curious Alex. “Oh, I was just thinking about you that's all.”

“I know that’s right; I just wanted to hear it from you. So where were we?”  He was about to start stroking her neck when all of a sudden, he jumped up and let out a loud scream that seemed almost impossible to come from a man’s vocal chords. Deeply alarmed, Funkè also jumped up, wide eyed, “What's wrong???”

“I don't know babe. I think... I think I got bit. What the heck!” he shouted to the sky dancing around, as he grabbed his male piece. “Ahhrg I got bit, I got bit. I need... I need water.” Still not knowing exactly what to do or where to go from there, she dashed for their nearby parked car, grabbed an empty water-bottle, shouting, “Alex, loosen your pants, I gotta see it and you need to wash off…whatever it is!” Not hesitating any further, he obeyed her command, struggling to unbuckle his belt. Funkè dashed towards the dancing sprinklers as she caught from the corner of her eye, Alex, still dancing around and trying so hard to hold back his yells that seemed to have attracted attention from the other couples around. She filled the bottle and sprinted to him, with wet clothes and her hair matted against her face. “Here babe, where is it? Kneel right here and wash it, you'll be fine,” she stroked his back to calm him down a bit, then realizing that he hesitated, “I will look away while you wash.... it,” she stammered, looking away. But she felt Alex's strong hand on her arm, pulling her back to him, “I thought you were going to take a look at it,” came a smile naughtily displayed on his face. Funkè hissed at him, “I can see you feel better,” slapping his forehead gently, she got up and walked away. Finally, he got up with a look of relief on his face. He had been bitten by little red ants right on the tip of his male piece but as Funkè saw him calm, she gave a deep breath of relief herself, as she walked into his outstretched arms, inviting her for a thank you hug. “Now I am convinced that I am going to be okay. Men, babe I saw you ran for that water, not caring if you got wet or sick,” he said in wonder.

“Are you nuts? You scared the crap out of me!” she yelped at him, “actually you should have seen your face when you got the first bite down there,” then she started to laugh at him and chuckling out loud. Alex did not find the memory funny but managed a smile that said, ‘hmps, you think you funny, wait till I get you.’

“You got to know that I do love you Alex. And I know you would have done the same, right?” She questioned, looking up into his confirming eyes. He bent his head, placing another one of those juicy kisses, “yes babe, I’d do a lot of crazy things for you,” and he carried her in his arms.

“I need to get out of these clothes as soon as possible before I catch a cold,” Funkè said with a worried tone that Alex seemed to ignore. Instead, he replied cheerfully, “heck yea, lemme help you take your dress off.”

“You wish,” says Funkè laughing as she playfully slapped his hands off her dress. She ran back into the sprinklers in the dark of the night, shouting behind her, “not till I hear you say ‘I do,’ loud and clear!” to Alex who ran just right behind her.

Please leave your critiques, generous or not :-)