Sickness, Sci Fi & Squirrels
Before the recent germ attack, I attended a fabulous writers� conference in Richmond on Friday and Saturday. One of the highlights of the conference is the reading of �first pages� of novels that registrants submit beforehand to be critiqued (a kind word) by three literary agents. From what I�d heard, the pages � and the writing found on them � are torn apart in a very Simon Cowell way and there was a distinct American Idol feeling in the room as one agent would invariably say, �Well, I actually liked parts of this,� after the other two had finished chewing it up and spitting it out. Mine was read and got pretty good reviews from two out of three agents. Phew! I was relieved because the other highlight was a 5 minute meeting with an agent. You marked your first, second and third choices on the registration form. Somehow, despite registering back in the summer, I got stuck with my third choice � an agent who specializes in science fiction and fantasy. Which I don�t even like to read (more on that in a moment) much less write. I was really put out and grumbled for a day or two. I was less than enthusiastic about preparing a 5-minute elevator speech to prepare my �pitch� to her. I mean, what was the point?
Then, that very agent was one of the two that liked my first page! So, I was quite happy. The universe does move in mysterious ways and this seemed like one of those �meant to be� moments. So, I met with her on Saturday morning, she proclaimed that my novel sounded �very promising� and gave me her card. With the email address of one of her assistant agents who sells literary fiction (ahh, music to my ears!). So. Now all I have to do is finish the damn thing. Ha. Probably the agency won�t exist by then but who knows? Maybe I�ll just run away from the sick people currently occupying my house and find an Apartment of One�s Own and write. Worse mothers have existed. One exists in my novel.
So, the strep throat news on Sunday pretty much underscored what I�ve always, pessimistically, believed about life in that whenever something good happens, you pay for it. This is my reward for having a two-day writers� immersion and happy novel news. I will now spend the next few weeks (months?) under quarantine of one kind or the other. Figures.
But, in and amongst all this, a DVD collection of Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoons arrived (my husband�s doing) and Dusty is now becoming educated in the ways of R&B. She�s a big fan already, naturally. Her favorite bits are the Fractured Fairy Tales. And Rocky, of course. Who doesn�t love Rocky? He�s dreamy. In a squirrel kind of way.
And speaking of sci-fi and fantasy writing, I�m trying really hard to get through Margaret Atwood�s Oryx and Crake. It�s slow going because, god, I just can�t stretch the suspension of disbelief to include such a far-fetched idea of the bio-tech DNA-tampering business of creating an entirely new and �improved� kind of human and world. There is enough in the here-and-now world to interest me, and I am a Margaret Atwood fan but, seriously, I�m ready to just give this up and find something more interesting to read. I just have no interest in exploring a what-if situation that�s that removed from current reality. I�d rather re-read every Stephen King novel (and talk about your far-fetched what-ifs!) than waste much more time on this book. On the other hand, I really hate to give in at the half-way point because then I feel like I�ve wasted time that could have been spent reading something else. And, can I include an unfinished book on my book list (anally, I�ve been keeping a list of books read since 1989. Yes, I do have a �kick me � I�m a hopeless dork� sign on my back in indelible ink.)?
I met such interesting writers such as Rosalind Miles and Edward P. Jones this weekend that I�m now doubly anxious to finish this stupid book so I can read books by these two authors. And then some. Sigh.
And, that about sums it up. If I disappear for awhile, it�s because I�ve had to put on my Florence Nightingale cap (which does not fit well � it�s too tight and gives me a headache) and slog through the pestilential despair that hangs heavy like rain clouds in my house when I am surrounded by the diseased. I promise not to sit too close to you.
