word of the day: holy shit. . .

how the hell did that happen?

squeaky wheel. . .

Right now, a certain published author has my manuscript. He's a busy guy--his latest novel came out two days ago and he's just started a book-signing tour. He sent me an email the other day apologizing for the delay in reading the thing. Life's been insane but he'll get it read. Should have plenty of time on the road. . .

The guy's plate is full. Just the thought that he's willing to read something I wrote. . . did I mention he's won the Edgar award?

http://awards.omnimystery.com/mystery-awards-edgars.html 

He's in damn fine company, too. Dennis LeHane, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, Harlan Coben. Elmore Leonard. Mickey Spillane. Honest to God. Obviously, the man can write. His stuff sells. He's a bonafide NYT best-selling author and here he is, reading my damn book. How the hell did that happen?

I asked him.   

Sometimes I don't believe how ballsy I am. I thank my mom for that. She always told us: Squeaky wheel gets the grease. So when I read on this writer's website that he answers all emails, I thought, You know what? I'm gonna ask him to read my book. So I did, I asked him.

The novel was TWINK. I attached the first chapter, hit 'send' and immediately regretted it. I mean, really? What the hell was I thinking? But he wrote back. Very nice guy. He told me he read the first chapter and yeah, I can write. BUT, he said, people don't generally want to hear what he has to say. He doesn't mince words. He's been on the receiving end of harsh critiques; as a matter of fact, he has a couple of guys who regularly rip his manuscript a new one. They are relentless. They don't hold back. He asked me if I was ready for that, if I could handle that.

Yep, I said.

He was spot on, my God. I wept, then I shoved emotion to the side and started revising the thing. It's a much better novel, thanks to him. I really can't thank him enough.

But I'm incorrigible. When I finished writing CHERRY I thought, I wonder if he'd read it. What the hell, I'll ask. So I did. And damned if the guy didn't say, "Send it."

So I'm waiting. Patiently. Which isn't one of my strong suits but I'm doing it, knowing full well how lucky I am to have a writer of this man's caliber reading something I wrote. When I think about it, I'm thrilled and humbled.

You know what else I am? Proud. Because I started the ball rolling, took a chance. Sometimes you need to do that: step out of your comfort zone, make a little noise. It's a crap shoot, no guarantees.

But sometimes you get lucky. . .

he's so damn endearing. . .

cherry pickin', part DEUX

I knew the type of person Steve McGuire was before I wrote one word of CHERRY. I knew him up, down and sideways, inside and out. How did he get to be so sweet? Considering his history, what he’s endured, how he makes his living, and yet he’s a kind person. In a lot of ways, he remains an innocent. He’s not perfect but he has a good heart and a gentle soul. He’s a sponge trying to soak up everything, learn everything. Maybe because he knows his time is running out. He has an unshakeable belief system, an unwavering faith, a remarkable capacity to forgive. I love him. Can't help it.

“You’re not making sense. You’re mixing everything up.”

“No, I’m not, Mr. B.  I promised her. I told her, ‘I’m sorry I killed you but I still want to be your son’ and she said, ‘Then you can’t be older than me, Steve’ and I said, I said. . .”
Oh, shit. Here we go. I stood up.
“I said, ‘I won’t, I won’t Mom’ because she told me . . . she said. . .”

“Yeah, I’m in working mode right now.”

“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my name’s Cherry right now,” he said. “And I need to make some money.”

“Hey, Mr. Bee, this is a good one. It starts out with this guy who does high dives. Man, that Elmo.”

I smiled. “You’d better not call him that, Steve. I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

“Yeah, if he ever heard me call him Elmo I bet he’d say, ‘Not cool, Steve. Now I gotta break your legs.’”

“I can’t live longer than she did.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, I do. I want to be with my mom.”

“Hey,” I said, out of the blue, “You’re charging me too much. You shouldn’t be charging me a damn thing, Steve.” 
“Cherry, remember? I—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said. I took another pull and closed it up again. “I mean, dear boy. . .”

Steve must have thought that was funny. He cracked a grin.

“I don’t know what I mean, Steve,” I said, smiling back. “I mean, Cherry. Cherry, my dear boy.”

“You’re acting so weird, Mr. Bee.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say. It’s human nature to want to love and be loved, but people are imperfect, so—”

“So, they mess up,” he finished.

“That’s right.”

“But they have to keep trying,” he added.

I whispered, “Remember that on December 15, Steve,” and the kid whispered back, “I will, if you remember it on my birthday.”

"don't be an idiot, okay?"

cherry pickin', part one

In CHERRY, Steve McGuire, aka 'Cherry', is an enigma: intuitive but clueless, worldly but innocent, a perpetual man-child . . .   

“When I’m in working mode, my name’s Cherry. That’s my professional momiker.”

“You know what? We should go for a ride.”
“What—now?”
“Yep. We should go for a ride right now. We could go to the mall behind J. C. Penney’s.”
My heart skipped a beat. I felt it, swear to God.
“Twenty bucks. No, ten, ‘cause I almost gave you a heart attack.” He said that, then he stuck his tongue out at me. 

“Okay, part one: what was the book and part two: who’s Elmo Leonard?”

The kid slowly shook his head.
“What?”
“That’s not good, I bet.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I’m not exactly sure what it means, though.” 

“Okay. Remember the day it was snowing? You were standing in the road at Oak and Vine, right in the intersection, remember?”
“Nooo. . .”
“It was snowing and I fell out of the van, remember?”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah, now I do. That was funny.”
“No, it wasn’t. I thought you were going to get hit by that car.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, smile fading.

“How did you know I was nice?”
“You let me get warm in your van.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“You were twelve, huh?”
“Yeah, and ever since then, I follow that code. I read it every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed.”
“That’s really something.”
“I know.” 

“I didn’t know he was a cop.”
“Wait a minute—”
“And they’re mad at me.”
“Wait a minute, Steve. Who’s mad at you?”
“The cops.”
“Why are they mad at you?”
“I don’t know.” 

He bent down and whispered in my ear, “Open it or I’ll smother you. Do you want to be smothered right now?” 

“Did you know I got a busted rib?”
“Two busted ribs, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. And I got two black eyes.”
“I know.”
“And I got a broke nose.”
“I can see it, Steve.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed. 

“You can’t adopt me, Mr. Bee.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s crazy. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am, but you never told me what you want, so what do you want?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Seriously, Steve, what do you want? Tell me.”
His smile faded.  

“He knows who I’m with, Mr. Bee,” he said. “Don’t be an idiot, okay?”
 

okay, so maybe he's a shit and a fuck. . .

i love david brandt.

David Brandt, age 38, is a twice-divorced community college professor. He's also a selfish prick and he knows it. He says he doesn't give a crap but you can't put too much stock in that because he's a liar, lying mostly to himself. He's a seriously lonely fuck. He drinks Bacardi 151 to excess. He fancies himself an idiot. He fucks up more often than not. He dreams about bullets and black lace panties for God's sake. . .

I love him so much.

David Brandt is my main character in CHERRY. And the truth is, for much of the novel, he is all those things, but he isn't only those things and that's what makes him so interesting to me. That's what makes him human. He's floundering--trying to make sense of a world that sometimes make no sense. His misery is self-indulgent and insufficient because he's supremely unhappy, but not quite unhappy enough to call it quits.

Yet.

A complicated man.

I can safely say that David Brandt isn't the person at the end of the novel that he was at the beginning, but his transformation certainly isn't complete. It can be measured in degrees and may be temporary. Transient. The guy fucks up, he has in the past, anyway. Chances are, he will in the future and yet, he's willing to keep going, keep going, on the outside chance that the future holds some promise; that some good news might be waiting around that bend. He's willing to think that all may not be lost. It might be a case of a guy on the road to ruin, pulling the wool over his own eyes. Then again, maybe he's finally willing to accept some hard truths about himself, change some things that might not yet be cut in stone. 

Maybe.

I don't know, because I don't know how his story ends. CHERRY is a year in the life, as they say. Just like Brandt, I'm privy to his past, but not his future. I hope things go well, I hope he doesn't slip back into the skin of that selfish prick he was, but you never know. Maybe I love him precisely for that reason: he doesn't know either and grapples with that uncertainty. He wrestles with a past that seems hell-bent on fucking up the rest of his life.

How would I write his future? "Even when he loses the one person he loves, he's willing to consider a happier ending. Maybe not now, but at some point maybe something good will happen. Maybe. He's willing to stick around a little longer and see how it all pans out."

I love David Brandt because at the end of the day I believe he's still here, holding on to hope of better things.

in a pig's butt. . .

love will go anywhere.

In CHERRY, a young male prostitute loves a self-destructing, self-centered pig. Eventually, the pig loves the prostitute back.

How the hell does that happen?

Grandma used to say, "Love will go anywhere, even in a pig's butt." Sometimes, without rhyme or reason, people find love. Despite themselves. Despite everything.

When I first thought of the story for CHERRY, I knew the type of asshole my mc Dave was going to be. He admits early on he doesn't give a crap about people, least of all himself. He hates himself. He's self-destructing. He's one seriously lonely fuck. He has no friends, no one on earth loves him and no wonder: he treats people like shit.

Then he meets this kid who, for some unfathomable reason, cares about him. Makes no sense why, makes even less sense that he's incredibly turned on by this kid. He isn't gay--he's been married twice, for Christ's sake. Dave tries everything to push Cherry away, even as he's fucking him two, three times a week. He uses and abuses the kid. Taunts him. Hurts him emotionally. Physically. Doesn't matter--Cherry loves Dave unconditionally and forgives his trespasses, including an act of betrayal so devastating that he's heartbroken. And Dave nearly blows his own brains out. 

But the more Dave gets to know Cherry, the more he realizes that this kid is different. Special. He's an enigma: uncommonly sweet, incredibly naive and yet he sucks cock for a living. And he's as nutty as a fruitcake--Cherry believes his mom came to him in a vision when he was twelve. He's going to kill himself before he turns nineteen because he believes his mother told him to do it. His one goal in life is to be with his dead mother and he's planning for it, practicing by strangling himself and playing chicken with oncoming traffic.  

 

The closer Cherry gets to D-Day--Death Day--the more panicked Dave becomes. He  tries everything he can think of to change Cherry's mind. Dave's feelings are all over the place: one minute he want to fuck the kid, the next, he's seriously considering adopting him. He resorts to threats: he'll kill himself if Cherry doesn't listen to reason. But despite his best efforts, Cherry remains steadfast, determined to go through with his plan. No amount of begging, cajoling, or bullying by Dave is going to change his mind. 

At some point Dave stops thinking about himself. At some point, he accepts responsibility for Cherry, realizing that only he can stop the kid, except he can't; and when Cherry disappears, Dave finally admits the truth: he loves that kid, loves him more than he's ever loved another human being. It's not about sex anymore, not about himself anymore, it's about this other person who saw something in Dave he didn't see, couldn't see; loved him despite everything. . .

What possessed Cherry to love Dave? Sometimes there's no logical explanation for loving a person. Love doesn't care if a person is saint or sinner, alive or dead. Love doesn't care why, doesn't need to know why.  And sometimes, when you're hopelessly lost, love will find you. Even if you can't believe you deserve it.

Even when you don't.

"happy birthday to me. . ."

. . .with a CHERRY on top.

As the clock struck twelve last night, I sat in bed, lights off, hunched over my laptop at the behest of a fine writer over at AbsoluteWrite ( http://absolutewrite.com/forums/index.php ) who is struggling with her WIP. She'd sent the thing to betas and received conflicting feedback, which has caused her much distress. She asked if I would share with her my beta experiences relative to CHERRY; seeking from me answers to questions she wasn't even sure how to ask . . . but she did her best, and so did I.

And so, in the early hours of my birthday, I sat in the dark, deconstructing CHERRY.

I wrote CHERRY quickly, as I had my first three novels. The story came to me in a flash, nearly intact, so odd, but I knew the thing from beginning to end, and wrote it, and knew it was good. And thought it was done.

It was good, but it wasn't done.

That realization came to me when I read the critique from my first beta reader. This person and I had started off on the wrong foot over at aye-dub, due to my impatience and arrogance. But I apologized and he gave me a chance, even offering to read CHERRY for me when I was ready. After that rocky start, he and I developed a good report. I critiqued some of his work. I realized he was a thoughtful, insightful writer, and a good one. He was honest and I trusted him.

I sent my manuscript as a word file to this person, sent it half-way across the world. He read my novel and proclaimed it good, but not good enough. But, he said, it could be. I had to decide if I wanted to take it to the next level. He thought it was worth the effort. He thought I could do it.

His critique was a compilation of impressions he'd had whilst reading my novel, then thinking about it afterwards. He offered nothing specific, no specific suggestions as to how to fix my book. Didn't matter. I knew what he was saying: to make CHERRY better, I would have to rework it big time. Rewrite. Cut. Add whole chapters, my God, revamp the thing and I thought it was done. I wanted it done. Dammit.

But this person believed CHERRY was worth the effort, and after I ceased the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I reread CHERRY with his comments in mind, and came to the same conclusion.

He was but the first of a string of betas--all bright, insightful people; good writers, honest--who echoed that man's belief: CHERRY was decent but could be more than that. My final beta reader, another amazing person from AW, challenged me to dig deeper, take my main character to a place I was hesitant to go. He recognized my hesitation before I did, called me on it, told me I had a choice: make my mc a richer, deeper character, or leave him as is. How far was I willing to take this character?

Ultimately, I reworked my ms yet again. When I finally proclaimed CHERRY done, I felt a sense of awe and pride, and still do. I believe I've written something of value, I truly think I have. I couldn't have done it without those people who helped me so selflessly. I wouldn't have done it, I know it. These people had confidence in CHERRY and in me, when I had neither. 

I am blessed and truly grateful to the people who helped me, who believed in me. I shall do my best to return the favor in kind, as I tried to last night, in those wee first hours of my birthday. And on my birthday, I'm thinking of those special people, and thanking them, and wishing them every good thing.

With a cherry on top, of course.

"tweet, tweet"

a little boid told me she was taking queries again. . .

I've been waiting a long time for a certain agent to open the floodgates again. And she has. And I learned about it on Twitter, which is totally ridiculous.

For me, I mean. 

Before I reveal this literary agent's name and provide a couple of sobering stats (just to keep myself grounded), I want to talk about this Twitter business.

I've mentioned I'm a luddite, right? But I thought it was important to start putting myself out there in the virtual world, step out of my comfort zone. Hence, this blog. Funny thing about having your own blog: you start checking out other people's blogs. Fascinating how many literary agencies and agents have blogs.

I happened to be reading a certain literary agent's blog and caught a tweet off to the side, from another certain literary agent who just started accepting query submissions again, after a long hiatus. Months long. During that time, she made a significant life change, leaving one agency to join another, and she took some extra, needed time to regroup. Catch her breath.

Her name is Sarah LaPolla. Her new agency is Bradford Literary Agency: http://www.bradfordlit.com/ . And Sarah has a blog: http://glasscaseblog.blogspot.com/ . It is from her June 13 blog that I pluck the following sobering statistics:

Total number of unsolicited queries received from January - April of this year: 1,182

(Note: "Unsolicited" does not include referrals, conference/contest requests, or revisions I had asked for previously.)

Total number of manuscripts requested out of the 1,182 queries: 17

Total offers of representation out of the 17 manuscripts requested: 0

Since January 2013, I signed 1 new client, a YA author who I met through a blog contest.

Sarah is a kind person who added the following, just for me:

But don't be discouraged, querying writers! The year is only halfway through and I just re-opened to queries. I'm at a new agency and am actively growing my list. (snip)

I sent CHERRY's query today to Sarah LaPolla, along with a hastily written synopsis (!) and Chapter One. Chances are slim that Ms. LaPolla will request further chapters but I figure it's worth a shot. Seems like Karma almost, seeing that tweet. 

Gotta believe in something.  

i forgot.

oh ye of little faith. . . 

I'm knee-deep in my WIP and querying my last novel, CHERRY. Both endeavors have been a challenge, nothing new for writers. Trying to write the next great novel whilst trying to sell the last tends to weigh on a writer's mind. Personally, it's been tough for me to keep my mind on anything else and with that came a sense of foreboding and panic; wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into, this perpetual mobius strip of writing and querying and waiting and wondering and worrying. Especially, worrying. Is it good? Is it good enough?

I mentioned the agent who took a pass on CHERRY and my subsequent . . . what? Loss of confidence, maybe. Loss of hope. Which, in retrospect, is silly. He's a great agent but as I've said, he's just one agent. And waiting to hear back from agents or publishers is part of the game. I know that intellectually but emotionally, that agent's pass threw me for a loop. I found myself wondering if I was fooling myself. I'm not talking about getting published. I'm referring to the caliber of my writing, the caliber of my novels, specifically CHERRY.

People who read CHERRY told me it's good. This was after I implemented changes suggested by such phenomenal betas at AbsoluteWrite. I agreed with most of what they said and even though it was difficult to cut some of the narrative, move text around, add new chapters, I listened because it made sense. My novel was the better for it and when I finally proclaimed it 'done'--as done as an unpublished novel can be--I was satisfied with it.

Truth is, I was more than satisfied. I thought it was good. Really good. Should I be humble and say, I thought it was okay, hoping. . .   No, I think the first champion of a writer's work should be the writer. How do you sell your work if you don't believe in it, right?

And I did believe in it, swear to god. I sent the query and sample pages to those few indie publishers and my dream agent--that's what I called him in my heart of hearts--and dared imagine best case scenerios. I actually pictured the agent writing me an email: I'm liking it, kk. A lot. Send me the rest. Then a week went by, and another, and another, and I felt my confidence wane, and then I started doubting myself, doubting my work, wondering, What was I thinking?

My WIP suffered for it. Doubt begats doubt and squelches creativity. And I found myself dreading the prospect of opening my emails and seeing a message from one of those publishers or that agent. And then, there it was. I clicked open the agent's email with trepidation. Truth is, my heart was hammering. I was expecting the worst and he delivered, giving validation to every crud thought I'd had those last two weeks. He didn't want to read the rest; ergo, my writing sucks, my story sucks, I suck and I'm fooling myself to think I wrote anything good, anything worthwhile.

Not a good place to be, so what did I do about it?

I mentioned the disappointing news on my query thread at AW. Some really, really nice people wrote to me, offering their support, saying kind things which I truly appreciated. Then I wrote a blog about it, which helped. Then I spent a really nice evening with my husband at a metropark by our house. We saw some deer and a pair of nesting ospreys. We shared a bottle of cheap wine. He listened as I lamented and told me not to be disheartened. Doesn't matter if the damn thing never gets published, he said.

But it does. I decided I was going to start querying again and I shall do so, next week. Then, yesterday, I grabbed a blanket, beer and my laptop and headed out back. Spread the blanket beneath our apple tree and opened my WIP, and started to write. I'd been at an impasse but the words came easier for some reason. Then I sat back and enjoyed the evening and thought about CHERRY. Was it good?

I used to think so. 

This a.m. there was an email in my inbox from a certain individual who's read another one of my novels. He's an award-winning author, an excellent writer, very generous of his time and expertise. He gave me me great advice which I kept in mind when writing CHERRY. I'd sent the ms to him a while back but he got caught up in all of his own stuff, he has a new book coming out and other wonderful things going on. Anyway, he wrote to me early this a.m., telling me he was finally able to get back to reading my manuscript. And I started wondering, oh man, what have I done? Sent this guy my novel, my God, is it a pile of crap? I opened the file this morning and started reading the thing, and I didn't stop until I was done. 

I finished reading CHERRY a little while ago. It made me cry, just like it did the first time I read it. I love the characters and the story. I think the dialogue's good. I can't believe I wrote it, to tell you the truth. I feel like it's a gift given to me and I shall not squander that, I won't belittle that, I won't discount that. I wrote a good book. I know I did. 

I just forgot.  

this too shall pass.

please mr. fantasy, send me an email. . . 

I read your first five chapters of CHERRY, kk. How long have you been writing again? Just a couple of years? Wow. Well, I'm really impressed and I definitely want to read the rest of your novel. Send it as an attachment, attention me. Personally, yep. . .

Like a backhand across the face. What the hell happened?

He read my query and liked it enough to ask for the first few chapters. He read the chapters and took a pass. Nope. No thanks. Good luck and all that. An email, just a couple of lines, succinct, professional.

It knocked me on my ass.

Intellectually, as soon as I read that email I was working it, putting a positive spin on it. Patting myself on the back for making it that far. Telling myself he's only one agent. It wasn't meant to be, that's all. I know CHERRY's good, I just need to find the right fit and I will, it's just a matter of time.

But emotionally, I was wrecked yesterday. Funny how fast one can slip into that sickening, self-indulgent mode: it's crap/I suck. . .

Today I'm sorting through my feelings. Tossing the most ridiculous maudlin shit which serves absolutely no purpose. Filing assorted bits and pieces of the experience away--just in case, for future reference. Stepping back, putting the thing in perspective.

I considered marshalling the troops today, meeting my disappointment head on, searching and querying. But I decided to give myself time. As David Brandt says, I need to process this, so I shall allow myself a couple of days to digest that email, let it work it's way through my system. I shall absorb what's of value and shite the rest.

Yep. This too shall pass.

alien nation

nifty title, dammit. 

After getting permission from Alan Dean Foster, I shall write my next novel: ALIEN NATION. It opens with a boy, thirteen maybe, contemplating his reflection in the bedroom mirror. It's early. His favorite song, Traffic's The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, plays in the background.

He's a scrawny kid with dyed jet black hair, blue eyes ringed by black eyeliner and mascara, wearing skivvies and a white tank top. The kid is holding a gun to his head. What's the alternative? If there is one, he doesn't see it. He doesn't fit in so he's checking out.

As a writer, I can relate in that writing is, by default, a solitary thing, an alienating thing, and yet we're trying to find our way, navigate through, make our mark. We're searching for our proper place. We want to be accepted. Respected. We want to matter to somebody.

A lot of somebodies.

I started a thread relative to that on aye-dub, last year was it? It's been an issue with me since pretty much always. You put yourself out there, put yourself out there and then you wait. Hoping somebody responds. Talking as a writer now, hoping somebody reads the damn thing and when you're met with silence, you start wondering, What the hell, man? Is anybody reading my shit? Does anybody even give a shit?

The stuff I write doesn't quite fit the "norm," if there is such a thing. Maybe not, but that's been the general consensus from people who've read my novels. Thinking about CHERRY now, I have to believe there's a place for it, an audience for it. Best case scenario: it transcends arbitrarily-ascribed perameters (whatever they are); touches a nerve, finds an audience which enthusiastically responds to the novel, proving its viability/validity/value, which means, (extrapolating) that what I wrote actually matters; (further extrapolating) meaning, by default, that I actually matter.

Is that selfish? I dunno, ask that boy.

Never mind. The question was rhetorical and anyway, what did I write in that AW thread? This is me doubting myself, which is something I have done consistently, which is self-defeating and ridiculous. Not in Courier, of course. That's just wrong. My point is, writing, like living, is often a solitary endeavor. The very act of writing alienates us from our intended audience. What's the alternative? 

Don't answer that.

Virtual Perpetuality

"Hello?" 

She asks that question to the Universe, having just checked her emails for any sign of life. She had such high hopes, reflected in the day's breaking dawn: crisp and clear, fresh and full of promise. . . 

Actually, it's nippy and kind of cloudy out, and I woke sluggish and out of sorts after sleeping nearly twelve hours to which I say Holy crap, where's my coffee?  I guess I needed it, but that's not the point. The point is, my novel CHERRY is in a state of virtual perpetuality right now. I'm waiting to hear back from a few publishers and a certain agent.

A little backround.

I wrote CHERRY, my fourth novel, then sufficiently shredded the thing based on some amazing beta reader comments and suggestions. I put it back together again, moving chapters, adding new stuff, then I refined it, tweaked it and tweaked it and tweaked it some more, and finally declared it *done*.

Fool that I was.

I shall not bore you, my ersatz readers, with my harrowing tale of woe relative to drafting my query letter for CHERRY. Should anyone be interested, you may peruse my personal journey through Query Letter Hell over on AbsoluteWrite *here* . It started last April (I'm talking 2012) and ended last month. Long story short, I worked that puppy to death, realized CHERRY wasn't done yet, reworked the novel then sent it to betas again, then started from scratch with the query and finally declared both ready to roll.

Novel and query complete, I tentatively sent forth a few queries--six, to be exact. Five to independent publishers and one to an agent. I shall speak more of my reasoning behind going the indie route in another blog thingie. Suffice to say, I thought it was prudent to do so, considering a lot of things, not the least of which is CHERRY's subject matter. As for that lone agent, I found him after a bout of extensive research. I'm not suggesting he was difficult to find--actually, he's well-known, well-respected, owns the agency. The process was extensive only because I made it so, because I tend to do that, because I'm--

Fodder for another blog thingie, perhaps.

Back to it: of the five indies, two have responded thus far; both, within days of sending my query, and both requesting fulls. Endless possibilities danced inside my little pea brain and made me giddy. THEN, barely two days after sending my query to the agent, I received an email from him requesting the first few chapters. Oh joy! Rapture! I sent him the first five chapters then commenced to doing the happy dance, which lasted a week, maybe.

Then harsh reality set in, as it tends to do. Truth is, I may be waiting for a while. I may never hear back. (I shall not mention the harshest reality: that, even if I do hear back, chances of anything actually *happening* are slim. I won't mention that because I'll just get depressed and it ain't even 7 a.m. yet and I ain't even finished my first cuppa joe yet.)

Bottom line is this: Today is June 9, 2013, and I am waiting to hear from two indie publishers and one fine literary agent. I know, I know, it's only been a month--four weeks, that's peanuts in the novel submission waiting game, patience is a virtue my God stop your whining just give it a rest but the waiting is