I’d love a great agent pitching my must-have novel. Really would. I’m working on the must-have novel. Damn, don’t you hate that order? When I get stuck, I kinda daydream–all writers do, I’m sure. Well, the ones who don’t have agents and bestsellers already. So you surf, and you read agent blogs (and I notice a lot of sucking up on those–“Oh, what a brilliant post about how I shouldn’t forget to look at the guidelines, really!”). You fantasize that said agent might be tapping her pencil, just waiting for your email or package. Bingo! she yells out to her assistant. Get Ciar Cullen on the phone immediately.
Yeah. Well, that’s a few months away.
In the meantime, I got a letter today, from an agent. It wasn’t a form letter. It was very nicely done, actually, with a lot of feedback. It was for a book that has been selling for oh, about a year at least. She didn’t quite love it enough (hardy har har), but she thinks I have a great fresh voice. Wow.
I looked at the postmark (of course, it must have been misdirected to Afghanistan or something). Three days ago. The letter was dated too. Three days ago.
It’s been so long since I sent that full out that I forgot who I sent it to.
So, Dear Agents. Ah, I’m speechless. Okay, not exactly, but I’ve been lectured enough about authors behaving badly to know better. Still, WT…? This isn’t first-time agent Susie Cream Cheese in nowheresville. I guess stuff happens to them too. But honestly, would you bother getting back to someone with a rejection after a year and a half? I simply can’t wrap my brain around this one.
On other, equally uninteresting fronts: I’m still pretty absorbed in family issues. My mom’s pneumonia and congestive heart failure. They are actually going to try to send her home again. That’s insurance for you. And my poor stepdad will do anything to make her happy. So it’s back to Baltimore in a few days to help her get settled in. The woman has something left to do or say, that’s all I can think. No one should have survived the ten life-threatening issues she’s gone through in the last two years. I can’t figure this one out either. I only know that I alternate between numb, productive, and tears in an endless loop. Not really condusive to writing.
Nevertheless, two chapters of my unnamed steampunk nearly done, some feedback from the Goddess of all crit partners, and a revise and resubmit from my Samhain editor.
I’ve managed to run about 20 miles this week. Not bad at all, given where I was a year ago with my health. Lost 8 pounds. My reward is a new pair of running shoes. I mean, the expensive ones. Woot! The Romance Divas go all out for heels and would not approve of my choice. Zappos, here I come.
My cat’s surgery will have to wait a little longer, as he gets very moody when I’m away.
My friend the gay state trooper (as I like to jokingly call her, although it’s accurate) called today and was on campus. Just wanted to wave electronically. I was trying to direct her where she might park, and she reminded me that she could basically park any damned spot she wanted. Right. State Trooper. See, my brain is not all it should be.
I’ll be back soon, hopefully with a peaceful heart and some good contests and junk that is better than my rambling.
Stay safe out there, all uze guys.