They say everyone thinks that they have a book inside of them.

They say writing that book is only one third of the work. Then its up to finding an agent.

Well, I've written the book. I've even written a sequel. And another sequel. I've gotten lots of good reviews from friends and family, and one or two iffy reviews. I didn't have the nerve, however, to look for an agent. Too afraid of rejection slips and form emails.

Then I matured a little, or something along those lines. In June of this year, I finally wrote my query letter, perfectly worded (we hope!). I found a few agents, starting mailing & emailing query letters and and synopses and sample pages.

I've had two ignores and two rejections so far. Its great! I don't feel discouraged or inclined to no longer write. I am going to keep sending my work off until I've been rejected 100 times. If my spirit doesn't break by then, I'll have finished my sci-fi and can start sending that off. Its written from a completely different voice, longer, more detailed, less humorous, more emotional. It is also a series, like the mystery novel, but will spread out over more years. Its 'harder' writing.

So, I'm on a journey of sorts. Doing this took more nerve than I've ever been able to muster. Eventually I'll be on a bookshelf somewhere, beyond the ones of dear friends who've bought my book out of pity.

Wish me luck, ya'll. Its a long, hard road.

Labels: agents, publishing, query letter, rejection, writing

We want things, and we want them now. We want our rewards now, our accolades. We want intimacy, and we don't want to wait or commit or be uncomfortable at all for it. We want homes, cars, couches, vacations.

Now.

Not tomorrow, not a year from today.


So the credit companies, the mortgage brokers, the ad agencies... they cater to us. They have built an empire of wealth on our fickle needs and whims. You need that red leather pair of pants? Now? Here's some money for it, we trust you to pay it back. With interest. For the next five years.

Need a house? Who doesn't? There's a company out there for you, eager to throw a hundred thousand or more at a house, in exchange for the title deed to that house and three hundred thousand dollars over the course of the next thirty years.

Gotta have that fling? That hot girl or guy at the night club, the beach, or the bar. They'll satisfy your need, right now. It may cost you a lifetime of herpes, child support, or emotional pain, but who cares? You got your fix when you wanted it.

I want a house. I'm thirty years old and I've never owned a home. Nearly everyone I know owns a home. I try not to let it bother me, but some days it really does. I look at my rental- knowing that I can never knock that wall out between the laundry room and the yard, put in a door, thus facilitating a laundry line and easier access to the grill. It would be prefect. But I don't own this house, so I can't do things like that to it.

Today, on a pure whim, we stopped by a lot that is liquidating their modular homes. I've had my eye on one there for several months now. The front is perfectly symmetrical, with a fenced porch and lovely windows. Inside, it was beyond perfect: a fireplace, a kitchen to die for, perfect master suite, high ceilings, crown molding, and even a laundry room. With windows...

I want that home.
I want it badly.
I want it now. Today. I want to hang my curtains up and put my pots on the stove and just exist in that simple little home.
I want it on an acre or two of land, with a little garden out back. I don't care if it's a modular- it still has drywall and wood and porcelain like a real house. And it would be so easy- all ready to move into. Now.

But I probably will not get that house. I don't know when I will get a house of my own, mostly because my husband and I gave into the 'now' epidemic when we didn't really have a secure financial footing. We bought a car when jobs and life were good, but jobs and life did not stay good and we lost that car. We moved a lot, sometimes leaving our bills behind with the old address. But those bills find you, with those little yellow forwarding address stickers that I have come to despise.

We were foolish, but we're smarter now. Now. We pay our bills now, and are slowly making good on the old ones. But our credit is badly damaged for the next few years, so a house is probably not on our horizon. But one never knows, not really...


I wrote a book, and I wanted to see it in print. Now. I read about agents, publishing, editing, copyrights... I lost hope. Its too hard, I cried, too hard! I'll just self-publish, on LuLu, and get around to the agent thing one day. Not now, but eventually. And then two whole years went by, just like that. Getting around to it never seems to come. I needed to write this annoying thing called a synopsis. Have you ever written a synopsis? How about one of your own full-length novel? Its not easy!

But I did it.
I did it today.
I opened my fortune cookie at work yesterday, and it said: 'You'll accomplish more if you start now.'
Well, duh. Of course I will.
But that silly little slip of paper stopped me in my tracks. I taped it inside my laptop, and this morning, when I normally would have opened up Civilization III to play, my wrist brushed against that little slip of paper and my soul screamed out for that book to be realized for what it is. I sat down and I wrote that synopsis. It was difficult, condensing 100,000 words into two pages of sensible plot outline. I had to trim and trim and trim my words. And then I wrote a query letter. Those two things were almost more challenging than writing the book itself! But I did it, and now I'm ready to send that synopsis and query letter out to one hundred agents. If not one of those agents accepts my work, I'll put that book aside and submit my science fiction novel once its done. And if that doesn't fly, then I can say that I've tried, and I will put my writing aside.

That's the kind of now I'm going for today. Not the 'I-need-it-now', but rather the 'I-need-to-do-it-now'. There's fiction inside of me, just crying to get out and onto that bookshelf. There's art inside of me, beyond my jewelry, beyond my writing- art that I've given up for the worries of life and having a manageable household. There's a child inside of me that doesn't play often with my own children, because that child was injured once too often ever so many years ago, and that child retreated behind a very thick stone wall, never to be injured again. But my children do not even know that child inside of their mother, and they deserve to have come out to play. So I'm going to do it, I'm going to come out from my wall and play. And I'm going to do it- not someday, because someday will come when they're too old- I'm going to do it NOW.

Labels: credit, home, house, impatience, money, mortgage, now, present, publishing, writing