A Post About Writing
I never write here about writing. Some of you readers might not even know I’m a writer (beyond the writing-random-freelance-stuff-for-pay kind of writer). But I am, and just usually keep it to myself. But I’m breaking my silence today to announce some good news and to provide a warning about the direction this blog may take for the next few months.
The news is that I now have an agent—a good one, from a great agency well-known for its literary-fiction-writing clients. I met her a few months ago at an event I forced myself to go to at Columbia—an alumni/agents mixer. I say “forced” because this kind of event is a pretty perfect combination of everything I hate most in life—small talk; entering a roomful of strangers alone; seeing familiar faces from what seems like a completely different person’s past life; pitching work to steely-eyed professionals, some of whom cut you off mid-sentence; the expectation that you are there to sell yourself as much as anything else. But I practiced my pitch for weeks and forced myself out the door on a snowy evening and up to Morningside Heights. And, apparently, the trek (and the leaden stomach of nerves) paid off.
Here’s the catch: She didn’t take me on as a client for the novel I went to pitch; she hasn’t even read it yet. Instead, she fell in love with one of the novellas that formed part of my Columbia thesis and wants me to turn it into a full-length novel. When we spoke last week, she seemed confident about the possibility of selling it, which floored me. Of course I agreed to the revision.
Here’s the other catch: I agreed to complete the revision by the beginning of June. That’s one-hundred-plus pages in two months. This—this taking on of a project an otherwise reasonable person might rightly wonder if she can complete—is a very Orlando thing to do. But I do feel confident that I can do it. I’ve halted all my freelance work and plan to devote every minute to this. I’m planning to finally find a babysitter for a few hours a week. I’m planning at least a week in Connellsville for some really intensive writing time. And in two months I hope to have a strong piece of work.
It’s all a little crazy, and I feel alternately exhilarated and panicked. All I know is that for these next two months, writing this novel will be what I do. I will try to post now and then about the process, though here’s where the warning comes in: When I do attempt such posts, they might consist of little more than a stricken, Edvard Munch-like AAAHHHHHHHHHH.
The news is that I now have an agent—a good one, from a great agency well-known for its literary-fiction-writing clients. I met her a few months ago at an event I forced myself to go to at Columbia—an alumni/agents mixer. I say “forced” because this kind of event is a pretty perfect combination of everything I hate most in life—small talk; entering a roomful of strangers alone; seeing familiar faces from what seems like a completely different person’s past life; pitching work to steely-eyed professionals, some of whom cut you off mid-sentence; the expectation that you are there to sell yourself as much as anything else. But I practiced my pitch for weeks and forced myself out the door on a snowy evening and up to Morningside Heights. And, apparently, the trek (and the leaden stomach of nerves) paid off.
Here’s the catch: She didn’t take me on as a client for the novel I went to pitch; she hasn’t even read it yet. Instead, she fell in love with one of the novellas that formed part of my Columbia thesis and wants me to turn it into a full-length novel. When we spoke last week, she seemed confident about the possibility of selling it, which floored me. Of course I agreed to the revision.
Here’s the other catch: I agreed to complete the revision by the beginning of June. That’s one-hundred-plus pages in two months. This—this taking on of a project an otherwise reasonable person might rightly wonder if she can complete—is a very Orlando thing to do. But I do feel confident that I can do it. I’ve halted all my freelance work and plan to devote every minute to this. I’m planning to finally find a babysitter for a few hours a week. I’m planning at least a week in Connellsville for some really intensive writing time. And in two months I hope to have a strong piece of work.
It’s all a little crazy, and I feel alternately exhilarated and panicked. All I know is that for these next two months, writing this novel will be what I do. I will try to post now and then about the process, though here’s where the warning comes in: When I do attempt such posts, they might consist of little more than a stricken, Edvard Munch-like AAAHHHHHHHHHH.
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