The fact that I’m allergic to cats should hold no weight in the above
sentiment. (Although it could explain all the sneezes this morning.)
Even Frank’s not immune to the potential beauty and warmth the new day
holds.
My specter of imminent failure is currently sipping a cup of earl gray
tea while jotting down a list of ripe insults to toss at me like Molotov cocktails
throughout the day. Worry not, friends. I am donning my fire-resistant suit so
let the fleshless bastard do his best.
On the writing front, I still haven’t dared to give the galley proof
for “Ravenscar” a look-see yet. This afternoon I’m hoping to scrub off the
yellow streak running down my spine. Such cowardly spots are hard to reach,
however, so forgive me if I remain a bit jaundiced.
Yesterday, as I battled the quagmire that is so often my mind, I got
little writing done. I did, however, do some more reading on writing and
publishing historical fiction. (Yes, once again “The Six Brothers” storyline
rises to the top of my creative chaos.)
Apparently there is a market for historical fiction out there. “Yeah!”
Apparently this market really requires a literary agent. “Boo.”
So this bit of news doesn’t
deter me as much as it just lengthens the process. A process which includes:
-Writing the plot. (Duh.)
-Writing the story. (Double-duh.)
-Polishing the story to
a blinding shine.
-Submitting the story to literary agents.
-Waiting. (I hate waiting.)
-Freaking out over
rejections from literary agents.
-Freaking out even more
over an acceptance from a literary agent.
-Submitting the story
to publishers.
-Waiting.
-And
waiting.
-Publication! (if I
haven’t died in a state-run old folks’ home by then, of course. For some
reason, posthumous success doesn’t quite hold the same appeal as “living,
breathing, able to cash the paycheck and file federal income tax” success does.)
So there you have it! My plan for the next forty odd years.
*chuckles gaily while dodging the
Frank’s first Molotov cocktail of the day*
Until tonight…
Chloe
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