So, life…yeah, not sure where else to go with that.
Unemployment is still running rampant about me. You know something is wrong in the world when not even Target wants someone with a sparkling history in retail. I don’t mean to toot my horn, but goddamn, I’m an awesome employee. Seriously. So waddafuck, Target?
And hey, Best Buy, you bitches lost out! I can sell electronics like a fucker. Just ask Toys R Us how much money I made for them. (A lot, if you’re wondering).
I’m still blaming a large chunk of this on Limited Brands. Yes, you fucking bastards, you can eat my navel lint, among other things. You are the blemish on an otherwise DAZZLING work record. I was going to be a manager for you dickwads. I mean, christ, managers have increased my pay drastically just to keep me from walking out on them. Good luck with your chain of overpriced retailers in a downward-spiraling economy. Cunts.
And what about that novel? Oh, thank you for asking. Well, I’m currently at the end of the second round of revisions. Which basically means I’m re-reading everything and wondering if I have any ability whatsoever. Then I attempt to read a Sookie Stackhouse novel and I’m filled with confidence for another day. Seriously, have you read those things? *shudder*
I’m also beginning to realize that no matter how many changes I make, I’m likely never to be completely happy with it. After all, I never meant this to be anything momentous. It was just an idea that I wanted to flesh out organically. I made no rules for myself. I just let everything flow out in whatever way it felt, then made it cohesive in the end.
There really is something to be said about merely finishing a project of this size. It’s given me a great sense of accomplishment. 75,000+ words! It’s just baffling to think about.
You go back and look at it and think, “Did all of that really come out of me?” Like a baby taking its first really spectacular poop. Or a grown man taking a really spectacular poop. Us men like little accomplishments like that. Even the gay ones (most of us just don’t brag about it. I do).
So instead of toiling endlessly and never reaching any true satisfaction with it, I’m opting to send it out into the ether as it is, blemishes and all. If it’s meant to happen, it will happen.
Now, the first step is the toughest bit. Finding a literary agent. It seems everyone thinks that once you write a book, you just ship the thing off to a publishing house and wait for that letter to come back. And I admit, I counted myself among these people until a few months ago.
The fact is, publishing houses want nothing to do with your adorable little manuscript shat from the copy machines of Kinko’s, boxed up and tossed in their flooding inboxes. That is the job of a literary agent.
Newly armed with this knowledge, I have made the first step. Just this evening, I submitted a query—don’t even get me started on that process—to my first agent’s email. And I must tell you, dear Ether, pushing that “send” button was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever had to do. And I’ve had to cut open the skin on my own foot to retrieve a rather large shard of wood. Yeah, gross, huh?
But I did it. I Kamehameha’d all my spirit and slapped that button on the mouse with gusto. Now I’m just dealing with the very real fear of having an actual person read that email. Fortunately, I don’t have to have any knowledge of that.
And so, lovely Ether, I close this letter to you and bid you a fond morning. Until next time, Space Cowboy.