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*