Learning How to Wait
If this blog has been light on personal detail lately, it's because I've been scared to talk about the big stuff. Different stuff, different types of scared, but the big things have to be downgraded in my brain to huh, no biggie, and lots of shrugs so I can cope with daily life.
After three years of various kinds of fret and sweat, I'm closer than I've ever been to selling my book, but still it stays dangling, somewhere else. Not here. Not now. But close. Soon. Maybe.
Apparently I could fuck things up if I give too much detail, and My Big Gob has got me into trouble more than once in my life, so that's why I'm scared. As well as just being, well, scared. Because it affects so many things, and would be so tragic if it went badly. But there are publishers, reading and thinking, and there's me, sitting and waiting, and I have no fucking idea what's going to happen. All I can do is wait.
I re-read my agent's blurb for the book last night, the first thing publishers get to see. I read the first two and last three chapters too. I wanted to know if it was the kind of book that might catch people's attention. And it IS a good book, dammit. It's well written, it's funny, it's original and it's attention-grabbing. And when my agent described it as "sizzles with energy and imagination," he wasn't completely off his nut. It bloody ought to sell to someone, and for a decent amount. But what the hell do I know.
In the meantime I'm doing bits and bobs of other work: Reading, critiquing and editing other people's manuscripts (for a fee), touting for more storytelling gigs, some IT work. And. I'm ready to think about Novel III. I'm creating a shortlist of ideas, then I'll fiddle about with each in turn, see which fits me best. Some time soon I'll start writing it, which terrifies and excites me. That's true of a lot of stuff in my life. Terrifying. Exciting. I've learnt so much in the writing of two novels. The next one will be better. The next one will be easier. The next one will be different.
In 60 years' time I'll be108 98*, and I bet - I hope - I'll be saying the same old things.
*OK OK, I know. I can't add up. Except I can, I knew full well it was 98 really, it's just that originally I wrote 70 years and 108, and then I edited it to 60 years and meant to change it to 98 to match, but I forgot, and I CAN add up, really, I can, and... oh, never mind.
___
After three years of various kinds of fret and sweat, I'm closer than I've ever been to selling my book, but still it stays dangling, somewhere else. Not here. Not now. But close. Soon. Maybe.
Apparently I could fuck things up if I give too much detail, and My Big Gob has got me into trouble more than once in my life, so that's why I'm scared. As well as just being, well, scared. Because it affects so many things, and would be so tragic if it went badly. But there are publishers, reading and thinking, and there's me, sitting and waiting, and I have no fucking idea what's going to happen. All I can do is wait.
I re-read my agent's blurb for the book last night, the first thing publishers get to see. I read the first two and last three chapters too. I wanted to know if it was the kind of book that might catch people's attention. And it IS a good book, dammit. It's well written, it's funny, it's original and it's attention-grabbing. And when my agent described it as "sizzles with energy and imagination," he wasn't completely off his nut. It bloody ought to sell to someone, and for a decent amount. But what the hell do I know.
In the meantime I'm doing bits and bobs of other work: Reading, critiquing and editing other people's manuscripts (for a fee), touting for more storytelling gigs, some IT work. And. I'm ready to think about Novel III. I'm creating a shortlist of ideas, then I'll fiddle about with each in turn, see which fits me best. Some time soon I'll start writing it, which terrifies and excites me. That's true of a lot of stuff in my life. Terrifying. Exciting. I've learnt so much in the writing of two novels. The next one will be better. The next one will be easier. The next one will be different.
In 60 years' time I'll be
*OK OK, I know. I can't add up. Except I can, I knew full well it was 98 really, it's just that originally I wrote 70 years and 108, and then I edited it to 60 years and meant to change it to 98 to match, but I forgot, and I CAN add up, really, I can, and... oh, never mind.
___
Labels: Writing About Writing
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