more waiting…

My manuscript has been “agented” for three months now. I used to call it “bragging rights” when I accidentally placed a non-money making song in a film or movie. So, now I have literary bragging rights (Ta Da! I have an agent!). However, even though the piece was sent out to about ten majors, there’s been no buzz, no communication, nothing. Boo Hoo.

All is not completely at a standstill, however.

I did give the story to a few college-age girls and the feedback was tremendous. So far, only six or seven people have read the manuscript. Their feedback meant the world to me, not to mention the necessity of having that “second pair of eyeballs”… and now that Kaylin has shared her reaction I am overjoyed. She said she’d love to have this assignment at school and that it was a fun read. Whew.

The instant gratification of self-publishing is deceitful because the momentum is difficult to maintain. But I must say waiting around for responses from editors and even my agent is difficult to endure. I guess I thought that once it became “agented” that the hard part was over. NOPE. I still vacillate between wanting to self-publish and going traditional. It reminds me of wanting a dog. Every day I say, “Gosh, I want a dog. Why don’t I have one? They’re so great!” and then I tell myself “No, you don’t want a dog!” but it’s an ongoing dilemma.  Perhaps this literary-back-and-forth will be settled by the close of my contract with Paul. Perhaps an editor will bite. Oh, the possibilities.

Here’s a picture of the dog that wandered into my house yesterday. His owner picked him up after five hours of babysitting at my house. It was enough to keep me from getting a dog for another six months or so.

On a creative note, the “Sextolet” piece is slowly slowly coming together…

Here’s an excerpt: The heat looms so thick, Addie mindlessly tries to pull it back like a drape— part the dense dry hot with her rugged hand but all she does is wave the molecules and fire ‘em up hotter—even hotter. There’s no wind today to sweep through the house—no wind to push into her window and sing so as to remind her that even though they are in the middle of nowhere, they are not alone.

Oh, welcome the wind even though it blows dust all over her rug. Dust under her rug and dust over her rug. Dust on her hands and dust between all forty toes that press …dust from the endless Mojave, mother of all destitution. When wind blows, a mother stops her humming.  Wind sends its own song, it does. The way it comes in and rattles things. The joshuas don’t feel the need to move. They stand there all day; they never tire. The wind ignores the likes of the joshuas.  Not so much as a branch waving or bristle rustling. Addie’s curtains wave. They wave in the kitchen and in the bedroom. Only two rooms with sheers. She likes when they wave, friendly most of the time, only sometimes is it treacherous. She boards up the bedroom window on those nights. How can the babies sleep in that much wind? Even a tent would be better than this old adobe without shutters during the treacherous winds.

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