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I came back from New York this past Tuesday. I was sick when I went and I was so panicked that by the end of each day I pretty much just short circuited at night and fell asleep instantly. My stomach was so off I didn't eat anything but Tylenol Complete and Tums all week.
So basically this thing was a 4 day conference where our book pitches were reviewed by a literary agent\editor who went all "Whiplash" on you for a full day. And then on the following 3 days you pitch to industry professionals. Professionals like: the executive director of MacMillan (!!!), who is personally responsible for a little show called The Walking Dead, the head editor of Del Rey (!!!!) publisher of fucking everyone including my favourite author of all time, executive editor of HarperCollins (!!!!!) one of the 5 biggest publishers in North America, and senior editor of Akashic () an indie press looking for paths for diversity and non-mainstream originality.
I mean, okay. Can you understand my feels here? U-T-T-E-R T-E-R-R-O-R. These are the biggest people in the industry, and I play my writing so close to the chest it hasn't even been in a slush pile before.
But guess whaaaat?
Turns out TWO editors want this book. MOTHER FUCKING TWO OF THEM.
HarperCollins and Del Rey. I could die.
So basically this thing was a 4 day conference where our book pitches were reviewed by a literary agent\editor who went all "Whiplash" on you for a full day. And then on the following 3 days you pitch to industry professionals. Professionals like: the executive director of MacMillan (!!!), who is personally responsible for a little show called The Walking Dead, the head editor of Del Rey (!!!!) publisher of fucking everyone including my favourite author of all time, executive editor of HarperCollins (!!!!!) one of the 5 biggest publishers in North America, and senior editor of Akashic () an indie press looking for paths for diversity and non-mainstream originality.
I mean, okay. Can you understand my feels here? U-T-T-E-R T-E-R-R-O-R. These are the biggest people in the industry, and I play my writing so close to the chest it hasn't even been in a slush pile before.
But guess whaaaat?
Turns out TWO editors want this book. MOTHER FUCKING TWO OF THEM.
HarperCollins and Del Rey. I could die.
Apparently I Am Here Again
Hello. Felt the need to write another of these today, for some reason. I think I'm the only one that reads these journals that I write, but I do like looking back on them. So the job situation is more or less sorted out (in that I have one). It's stressful and makes my head feel more or less like it's been jumbled by an eggbeater for several hours a day. Not quite sure how to get around that one. I joined and worked for a satire magazine. They liked my work enough that they published one of my essays in their book. Which was nice. Then they published a racist joke (not intentionally, but ignorance followed by arrogance is basically just as bad as out and out hate). Half of the editorial staff quit when the director didn't take appropriate action. When we were asked to go back to work, I said I wouldn't do so until the staff who had resigned were replaced with BIPOC folks and at at least one person from the LGBTQ community. Seems I was unceremoniously "uninvited" from further
Things Are Looking
Since the last entry, I:
- got a human job
- one that actually requires my literal qualifications, which is... wow. And in this economy! ... amirite?
- got an exclusivity request from that agent!
- found it within myself to actually query a few more
- actually got accepted to the satire magazine! Yes, I am now able to make fun of Donald Trump in a professional capacity.
- I am, horrifyingly, getting my own column starting next month.
- am on the selection committee for the film festival for the third year running.
- got sexy new ideas for 3 new books (2 fiction, 1 nonfiction)
- started writing a TV show. I finished most of the resea
Things Are Looking Up, But Also Down
Still don't have a job. Fucking broke as hell.
Put my ms through the grist, as promised. It went from 191K to 133K.
191 to 133. That's almost a third. Give me loving.
So I sent it off to a real live agent yesterday. An actual, breathing, literary professional has my book on their desk. Ok, not my book but what is probably a decent query letter and a synopsis that took me 12 hours to get right, and the first 10 pages of the book.
I got a confirmation email from her office. Just seeing it made me nearly throw up over my keyboard. I feel like I look outwardly pretty calm, though. Not sure why this makes me as emotional as it does.
Freud sa
Shoot Me in the Face
The good news: I'm done the rewrites that the publishers wanted!
The neutral news: Done the rewrites, not the edits! I still have to go through it again and fix it all.
The bad news: The ideal ms is 100,000 words, roughly. My ms is 191,000 words (about the length of Goblet of Fire). So. Yeah. I think I might be able to cut it down to 139K if I really put it through the grister and learn to like self-loathing.
The really bad news: I don't have an income anymore, and neither does half of my town.
Just... start shooting. Start shooting and do not stop until my head is concave and you can see my vertebrae.
Seriously.
Damn.
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AAAAAHHHHH CONGRATS.