the ecstacy and the agony of an agent's interest

Sorry to sound like a typical it's all who you knower, but I got a chance to send my novel draft to an agent (!) through an old friend who used to work with him.

So I worked and I worked and I worked to finish the draft. Thank you, NaNoWriMo.

And I finished it. Gasp! Holy hell, I really did.

And I wrote a query letter and I wrote an outline of the whole dang thing (a fab exercise for cutting your work...like realizing all the stuff you just nibble on between meals, and cutting it out).

And I sent my query and my sample to my friend, for peeksies.

And she loved it. Loved it. And gave me some tips, which I devoured and applied with alarming speed to my query and draft.

Then, then...I sent it.

Oh man. But oh man, in TWO days time they wrote back and said they wanted to see the WHOLE book!! (!!)

The ecstacy!!!

And so, losing no time at all, I read and tweaked and edited and added mistakes (most likely) to the whole draft and sent it.

And nothing...no word.

It's been three w e e e k s.

And the agony of waiting the first few days has worn off and now I wonder if I'll ever hear, if they even got it, if new york ever existed...is this all a dream?

No, I check my sent file on my email. It went. I even pasted it into the body of the email, so there would be no problems with opening the attachment.

Maybe that was overkill..maybe they think I'm crazy.

Maybe I am...or I will be soon.


Writing Mamas Adopt Me

My blog post here also appeared on the Writing Mamas website! With lots of fine comments and praise, I'm not shy to mention. Excellent stuff.

Check it out at www.writingmamas.com


Writing Mama c'est moi

The fact that I am finding the time to write this wrapped in a towel on the couch while my children play a game in the bathroom featuring characters named Charlie Pimple and Diaper should qualify me as a writing mama. I've been one since the day darling Frances (aka Charlie Pimple) arrived on the scene.

But being a Writing Mama is a whole different ball of Play-Doh.

The Writing Mamas are the ice cream truck at the park of local writing groups. They've been written up here, there and everywhere for their cold and creamy menu of treats: excellent guest speakers (authors and agents and more) preceded by networking and chatting time, and followed by critique circles. Special events like the Mama Monologues where members read their work are the MnM's on top.

So why has it taken me seven years to arrive at the doors of Book Passage on a Sunday night, in jeans, boots, a cute tee and my red suede jacket that makes me feel like I just spent the day wandering Green Apple books and eating at King of Thai noodle house, instead of measuring out Children's Tylenol and watching the Care Bears?

Two reasons.

One, I'm not a joiner, by nature. Not one of those me-and-my-group-of-15-best-friends-on-a-spa-weekend gals. Don't know why, really, except perhaps a few seminal meangirl moments back in the day. That and the fact that I spent and spend most of my free time with my nose in a book, or an iBook.

I also thought to be a Writing Mama you had to be writing about motherhood, which is not so. WM's featured on their website www.writingmamas.com spill their ink on a wide array of subjects, not just, as their motto says, "the multi-hued poop." And quite a tidy number of them have birthed books as well as babes.

So leaving my loner streak behind, I signed my name on the line. The evening that followed was just what I needed: intelligent conversation about writing and publishing and mothering and wifing and working, in a Care Bear-free environment.

I'm sold.