I’m not kidding; sometimes I wish I’d been a plumber. Endless work, a predictable and reasonable wage, instant reward for effort expended: the laws of the universe unfolding harmoniously on a daily basis.
It’s not like that with writing. Apart from the endless work, obviously.
Last count, I’ve written fourteen novels. I think half of them are published. Years of work, as yet unpaid, and people in the business ceaselessly telling you why your latest creation can’t sell, won’t sell, is of no interest to corporate publishing – such as it mostly is today.
I could really moan if I let myself get started but that’s not the point of this post. The fact is, today is a good day. A hopeful day. A day upon which the work feels worthwhile.
It’s taken fifteen months to bring my most recent novel from first line to submittable draft, but a few hours ago I got the nod from my agent that we are finally good to go.
I almost gave up on getting this far but, on Monday, Gallashan will go out to a select group of editors and the waiting game that authors constantly play – as though we love it or something – will begin in earnest once again.
It’s still a little early to share a synopsis. After all, we may get nothing but knockbacks. But if it becomes the case that someone wants to turn this other-world fantasy into a real book, I promise I’ll say a little more about it then.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if that happened sooner rather than later just this once…