I find it interesting that every day I came into the coffee shop to edit, one of my favorite two seats was open and waiting for me. Every day. Since I finished editing, I’ve had to fight for me seat every single time. I hope that’s a good sign.
Monday night, I spent nearly five hours preparing different versions of my first novel, The Shattered Door to send to three different publishing houses—each one requiring slightly different criteria. I also sent a query for Submerging Inferno to my dream agent, the agent for Kelley Armstrong, the author of the Women of the Underworld series that my series is inspired by. I couldn’t believe how long that took, how much research, how much minute (I hate that minute and minute are spelled the same—stupid old white guys!) detail. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what is coming, but, wow! Much harder than actually writing. Who knows if anything will come from any of them, but let’s cross our fingers. I was also surprised that several of the publishing companies I wanted to submit to wouldn’t even look at your manuscript unless you have an agent. I kinda thought they’d prefer you not have agent, so that they could screw you over a bit more. That clarified my ponderings if I truly wanted an agent or not. Yep, I do.
I spent yesterday getting caught up on Gavin’s photo book, the one that I will do for him each year for his birthday. It was kind of a reward for working so hard the day before, but also a necessity that needed to get done if I hoped be able to finish the rest by July. While I sat in my hard-won spot at the coffee shop, I eavesdropped on the conversations happening around me, as you do. Through these ‘investigations’ (half the time, I have my earphones in but no music playing), I discovered that the two people beside me both were trying to get books published. So glad there’s not any competition to new authors out there.
The woman sitting beside me was dressed very eccentrically, kinda like a drag queen, but not, well, ‘cause, you know, the vagina and all. It’s ok, go ahead and shudder. After a bit, I turned to her and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your phone conversation (translation, I was totally listening to your conversation as I pretended to listen to my ‘music’), and heard that you’re trying to get published. What’s your book about?” Turns out, it is a self-help book. Turns out she was talking to an on-line physic, who told her she should be a writer. Turns out, she wrote her book in two weeks. Turns out she edited her book in a couple months. Turns out she’s already self-publishing on Lulu. Turns out, she’s already looking for publishers.
HUH. Psychic phone call, book in two weeks. Hmmm. Seems my ambition since high school (fifteen years ago), starting Shattered five years ago, editing for years on end just meant I’m lazy. Two weeks!
She then told me that I need to visualize going around the world on book tours, having book signings, everyone knowing my books by name. Why wouldn’t it happen, she asked me. I resisted to list the billion reasons it wouldn’t happen and let myself get excited by her words. She’s right! Why wouldn’t it happen?
She then precedes to tell me about all her endeavors, one of which was making some of the outlandish apparel she was wearing and trying to sell them. Turns out none of her endeavors are going anywhere, and she couldn’t figure out why—which, if I followed correctly, is part of what prompted the psychic conversation and lead to the you’re-supposed-to-be-a-writer-girl (said in a Whoopie Goldberg voice) conversation.
The funny thing was, as much as I saw through all the mumbo jumbo she was spouting, and as much as I wanted to point out all the good her positive self-talk had brought to her, I couldn’t help but find her rather endearing, sweet, and encouraging.
So, while there truly might be a billion legitimate reasons why not, there only has to be one reason why. So, why not?
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago