Is it worth trying . . . I know what you’ll say, though

That agent who told me I could send the mystery and Camille’s story in August e-mailed me back yesterday to say I should send the stuff by snailmail and she would try to get to it. She’s been convention-hopping all summer and went on vacation last month, so she’s way behind.

So . . . I just promised myself and the Universe that I would dump this crazy book ambition if I could just be healed so that I could start fixing up this dump and taking care of necessities. I don’t want to renege on that. But maybe this is a sign?

Or maybe it is a temptation.

I don’t know . . . I hate to get back into the frenzy of submissions. On the other hand, this is just two partials to one agent I’ve already talked to. Maybe I could send it and forget about it.

Then again, it’s not as if I need all the coping/happy endorphin stuff sucked out of my body with the wheezing Oreck of false hope. Earlier this year, I was so happy working on the Pundit novel. (Even though there were several of you who didn’t like it, although one or two did.) I enjoyed watching what happened and listening to the banter between my Katherine Hepburn/Spencer Tracy/Greg Kinnear characters and the supporting cast (Eve Arden, Gracie Allen, Kathy Griffin from “My Life on the D-List,” and Totie Fields from back before y’all were born.) And playing with the plot to put in some twists that I think are funny. I was happy . . . until I started sending out the partial and getting slammed to the ground by all those agents (“we don’t DO stuff with any reference to terrorism,” “we don’t DO screwball romantic comedies,” “I can’t sell this”) and the contest judges (who all complained that I didn’t have Kay hurt enough when she sprained her ankle, yet when I added a couple of paragraphs where she admits to him that it hurts and he prods it gently and makes her gasp, they said, “We know he’s going to help her–skip all that.” You can’t please ’em.) So the trouble is not with the writing. It’s with the pleasing of others.

*I* would like to see how the Pundit story turns out. (Actually, I have the ending and the climactic scene with the mole and the evil turncoats already written. I have only to connect the first half of the book with the ending, and I know what I will do, but just got so discouraged with the “what’s the use?” that I quit.)

Sending stuff out is a downer. It’s like turning yourself into a low-hanging piñata. When you could just go happily on being nobody, which is your destiny. (And taking care of the elderly, and picking up after the fourteen-year-old kid who lives inside the hubby, and coping with the usual stuff of keeping the household [heh, “househole” typo as a Freudian slip] running.)

The apple is being offered. But is it poisoned?

*Fat princess is in another castle; please call back later*


Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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