I pulled the dusty cover off the machine, tightened the bolts and oiled the hinges. We’re T-minus 30 (days) for blast off. What am I sending into orbit, you ask? Oh, just my heart, my sanity and my future. No big deal.
Writing is, for me, a solitary pursuit. Except for my brass scarab and two re-donk-ulous cats, I work alone. And often in the dark, in the cracks between obligations and duties and the little pleasures. I steal words I like. I gratefully take support, the crumbs that are thrown my way.
I’m preparing to query my second manuscript. The first was ignored by many agents and one editor, and evaluated by a few, most of whom have tossed it back. Too small, that fish. Not ready for the frying pan, yet. I’ll get back to it someday, see if I can’t plump it up to appealing proportions.
My main character amuses me, and my heart goes out to her in both her naïve moments and her violent ones. The plot arc is clear, with plausible twists. The secondary characters have lives off the page, and those lives make them better, stronger. Not smarter, in at least one case. I’ve invented what I think is an original type of creature.
I like second manuscript, which is why this launch is probably going to hurt. “They” don’t make crash-helmets for the heart or the ego. If “they” did, “they’d” make a lot of money. Look into to, guys.
LISTENING TO: COLD WAR KIDS
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