Alas, I’ve been agentless for the better part of two months now and I still can’t seem to get my shit together. Which is not to say I haven’t tried, because I have.
Actually. . .
Actually, two months now and I think I’ve lost my way. I’m arift in a sea of indecision. Stuck in a quagmire of doubt. Trapped in a damn–
Oh hell, who am I kidding? Wasting time is what I’m doing. Like right now, writing crappy metaphors when I should be querying CHERRY or working on my ALBERT query. I gave myself permission to take a break until March 1st and here it is, March 4th now, and I’m still in a funk; still uninspired, still
Still I-don’t-know-what, and that’s a problem. What I do know is this: ALBERT’s query isn’t good enough yet, and CHERRY’s agent pool is. . .
Okay, maybe not quite as dire as that, but you get the idea.
But wait. I’ve done some writing-related stuff since March 1st. I went online, found and jotted down some new agent possibilities for CHERRY, enough to send out a decent batch of new queries. As for EFFIN’ ALBERT, I pulled up the query numerous times, messed with the thing . . . oh, and I updated my CHERRY agent list.
All good, right? And shining more light on the bright side, my CHERRY query is pretty damn solid, as is the novel. ALBERT’s solid, too. And SOULLESS is primed for digging in; that solid start just waiting for me to start working on it again.
But a writer can write the best query ever, the best novel under that shining sun, and never find an agent or publisher. No guarantees in this business, folks. And no guarantee one’s published novel will find a buying audience and yeah, I’m putting the proverbial cart before the horse now.
You know what? At this point, I really don’t give a crap. Seriously, I really don’t.
Or maybe I do. In fact, maybe I care too damn much. Or maybe the thought that all the work I’ve done has been for squat is too damn much. Or maybe I’m depleted. Hell, maybe I should just quit writing altogether, just hang it up I mean, it was a good run, right? Fun while it lasted and hey, I had my shot, I found an agent, dammit, which is good sight more than most writers can say.
Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
Or maybe I’m indulging in this protracted, post-agent melancholic bullshit, lamenting this setback and doing little to change it, which would be not only sickening, but down-right depressing. That’s not what I need right now. What I need is a swift kick in the butt to get myself moving again. What I need is to soldier through these doldrums and get myself back on track, on the stick, up on the saddle, into the swing. . .
Actually, what I need to do is quit writing metaphorical crap and start doing the work necessary to find me another great agent, who will find me a wonderful publisher for my stuff. To do that, I need to disengage from this sorry-ass state; fling off the sad-sack albatross hanging on my neck and weighing me down; shed this fatalistic hangdog attitude because, right now, not only can I not stand myself, but I don’t like what I’m doing–scratch that, not doing. My inability to move forward is getting me absolutely nowhere at all and serves no purpose, save wasting my precious time.