The Call

Phone rang at 6:22 a.m. Seattle time. When the phone rings that early in the morning, several thoughts flash through my mind: Who is calling? Wrong number? Emergency? Errant fax machine (this happens too often)?

This morning's call was one of the best I've ever received, which is a strong statement in my case. I don't usually become coherent before 9 a.m. But in this scenario I was wide awake instantly: the phone call was from an agent who wants to represent my novel.

HOORAY is too flat a word to describe how thrilled I am. Said agent will remain anonymous since we're at the very beginning of this process, but I will say I couldn't be happier about this agent's enthusiasm for my project and the reputation of the agency. Now I'll ask for all your crossed-fingers that we find an editor who shares the excitement about the series.

In venerable Underpants Gnomes' tradition I'm handing off my work to this equation:
Phase 1: Write novel
Phase 2: ? (mysterious agent work)
Phase 3: Published!

Of course this is an exaggeration; I understand an agent's role in this process and I'm ecstatic to have an industry pro invested in my work. I was too excited to return to sleep, so I got up and wandered around Seattle enjoying the soft gray morning light and the thrill of being a step closer to my dream of a writing career. Near Pike Place Market I came across this quote, stamped in bronze on the sidewalk:

"I always knew that at last I would take this road,
but yesterday I did not know it would be today."

There are moments when everything in the world falls in place, and I'm dancing with the earth itself.

Word Murder

Colder and far away.....

During my visit to the Golden State, I was subjected to weather reports warning me of the terrible cold (50 degrees) that had descended on San Francisco.

"Hah!" says the girl from the land of sub-zero, and wraps another scarf around her neck.

Now that I'm back in Minnesota it's time to apply all that wonderful advice from my conference. Namely, I will soon be engaged in adverbicide. The greatest sin of emerging writers, like myself, is that of overwriting. While we may think that big words and flowery prose are gifts to the world, they are in fact obstructions to a great story. Having sinned against my own novel, acts of contrition are in order.

Knackered

Writing is an endeavor frequently misunderstood. I recently found a writing soulmate in British author Marie Phillips (whose novel, Gods Behaving Badly, is one of the funniest books I've read). In an interview, Phillips described how much her writing alienates her from the rest of the world. As she relates (paraphrased): My friends ask what I did and I respond, I was laying on the couch and thinking all day. I'm absolutely knackered. To which her friends will roll their eyes or dismiss the suggestion.

Phillips summed up exactly a writer's mind (at least in my own experience): distracted, out of this world, constantly and furiously at work. And this process saps your physical and mental strength. I spend hours upon hours wandering around (my house, the block, the river, Target) and bumping into things - I'm a flaneur but the gritty, not graceful, kind - as I think about my characters and their worlds. I feel what they feel, I anticipate their reactions to the problems they encounter.

And yes, I spend all day on the couch, whether writing or just thinking about writing. And after a day like that, I am utterly and genuinely knackered.

Thanks, Ms. Phillips.