Secret Agent Man

        I know better than to count proverbial chickens before they hatch, but I’ve been talking to an agent for a few weeks now, and things are looking positive.  Of course that means nothing yet, because there are not contracts, no commitments of any kind, but he referred to my writing has having integrity.  I guess that counts for something.  Until I have a contract, I’ll just refer to him as Secret Agent Man; besides, I think that’s funnier.  I’m pretty sure he’d get a chuckle out of it.

He is yet another reason why my office isn’t getting cleaned.  I’ve been working on two different pieces for him to look at.  One is almost finished, the other is maybe half way, but I figured I’d polish up the first few chapters to send along with the other one.  He asked for them.  Yes – asked.  It’s a good feeling, something positive that helps me justify not doing things like cleaning and pulling weeds or going to the gym.

That’s the good news on the writing front.  The bad news is that my editor has yet to respond to the novel she’s had for nigh-onto six months now.  Talk about “hurry up and wait” here. And I’m not a patient writer when it comes to putting my work in someone else’s hands.  So I’m considering sending her an email that says something like:

Dear Editor (I know her name, but we’ll leave it at this):

I’m not a well woman.  My nerves are not what they used to be, and you are causing me all manner of discomfort. Tell me yes, or tell me no – but tell me something, and do it soon before I find myself stalking around my office in circles, peeling the wallpaper off so I can release the character that are hiding in there.

Yours truly –

Seriously, it feels like this sometimes.

I guess that’s part of being a writer.  No – I don’t guess it, I know it.  I’ve done this for long enough, and it isn’t my first rodeo. Suck it up, buttercup.  Good thing my office is purple and white instead of yellow.  And it’s painted, not wallpapered.  And I don’t really see people in there — often.

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