Is it just me, or does this picture look suspiciously like a phallic symbol? It's amazing how starting a new book sets off the doubting Thomasinas in my mind. How do I do this? What makes me think I can do this? How can this book possibly be as good as the last? Will I ever get to 80,000 words? What the hell was I thinking????
For the most part, I'm an upbeat, confident, optimistic person. But every now and then, I feel like I did in high school... Does anybody like me? Am I popular? Will I succeed in life? Am I like a totally lame dweeb, dude? Will I have a date for Friday night? Where the hell did I leave my stash?
Part of my self-doubt has to do with the carnival query ride I'm on. I've had 6 p
artial requests, 3 full requests, and 14 passes on MURDER ON TWILIGHT CIRCLE, so every few days I'm either up or down on that fun-filled roller coaster ride. Plus, I'm completely impatient and a bit of a control freak (okay, a TOTAL control freak), and those traits don't bode well in the publishing biz, no they don't bode well at all.Judging from past experience, the further I get into the book, the more my confidence will rise. I just finished the third chapter, and am about 7,000 words in. Once I figure out how the victim got whacked and who did it, I'll be fine. I know who she is, I'm just not sure who'd want to kill her or why. I mean I have some ideas, but I'm not quite there yet. After all, she's a perfectly lovely lady, drop-dead gorgeous (bad pun, I know), plays tennis, watches her neighbor's kids, gets regular facials at the spa. What's not to like? Until
I figure out the mystery, be glad you're not my husband, kids, or kitties, because I'll be like a totally neurotic mess, dude!Of course, once the WORLD'S HOTTEST LITERARY AGENT who's meant to represent me finally stops playing hard to get and shows him/herself, then all will be well in my world.
That is, until I start the next book...
So, I'm sending out an SOS to the world. Is thi
s the same for any of you? Words of wisdom? Specific names of bridges to jump off of? Poison to drink? Chocolate to eat? New shoes to buy? Should I call The Police and ask their advice? I'm sure Sting could stop riding his horse on his huge-ass English estate for like five minutes to give me some words of wisdom. I mean, it wouldn't kill him or anything. (Why does everything in my life lately revolve around killing and murder?)Anyway, you get the picture. I NEED HELP!!!!
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query hell /
self-doubt /
Sting /
The Police
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