This is it, gentle viewers. The moment
we’ve all I’ve been waiting for. The moment of truth, and other shiny cliches.
Four days from now, I will drag my sorry bum out of bed at an ungodly hour — which to me is any time before 10, but for this purpose is actually 6 — and mount my steed to point it toward New York.
Is anyone else awfully nervous, or is it just me?
For those of you just tuning in, this writer (c’est moi) is off to try to sweet-talk a bunch of agents into representing my book(s). If you’re not familiar with the publishing world or conference pitch sessions, picture having to compose a 90 second speech about why a genie should grant your most treasured wish. Then picture giving said speech about 30 times over in the space of a couple hours, faced with successive genies who each hold a key to the way forward.
Are you nervous yet?
If only all genies were blue and Robin Williams.
First of all, my hair cannot be allowed to look like it does right now. I decided today would be an acceptable day to let it dry of its own accord. To fly free, as it were. This was perhaps a decision of poor consideration.
If you think that’s bad, you should see it when I first wake up.
I think if I were to show up in New York with my head looking like that, I’d be mistaken for the Cloverfield monster and scare all the agents away. Which would be quite sad, because I just want to be their friend.
No, no. That hair won’t do.
In addition to the godawful early hours of the weekend and those being made godawful-er by the number of hours it will take to tame my hair into some semblance of humanity, there’s the butterflies in the belly that seem to think now is a good idea to speak up.
Sure, that shiny blue butterfly might look pretty sitting on its leaf, but do you really want it in your belly? I don’t. Besides, it’s only the harbinger of something awful. When it swirls around in your stomach as you give your 90-second “Oh my GAWD, pleez change my life!!!” speeches, it’s only doing that because something else stalks on its heels.
Note: The spelling “regection” is intentional and a throwback to the lovely AG over at Regected Riter. Once upon a time, he approved this picture and gave it a hearty chuckle.
You know, with the fangs, and with the lightning bolt ready to singe your arse back to the wound-licking realm of unpublished writerdom. That’s what lurks behind all of the pretty blue butterflies in my stomach. It could burst out whenever. It could show up at any moment, any at all.
Are you terrified yet?!?
Let’s face it, gentle viewers. Even if you are not a writer, even if the only book you ever thought about writing was preceded by the word “check,” even if you don’t have to try and convince someone you have the lock to their key (take that, Freud) — that Regection Monster lurks just around just about everyone. This week feels like the final countdown to my destiny, whether that happens to include “book on shelf” or lots and lots of beer and drunk people. It may not be as big as “destiny,” but this weekend holds a lot of potential.
The lovely and useful Kristen Lamb wrote a post today about critique groups that made my butterflies flutter just a wee bit more than usual. It made me think all sorts of scary things about my prose and structure, but one thing that it also made me fear was the Perfectionist Monster. That monster is almost more insidious, because she never lets you get near those elusive genie/key holder people for trying to make everything flawless.
Regardless, gentle viewers, I have much to fear and more to do in preparation. If you find me burbling and drooling in a corner, do fish me out.
When did you last face down the Regection Monster? Who prevailed? Ever felt your future hinged on a few silly seconds? Console me, please!
Love and kisses!
Writers: If you haven’t yet, go buy a copy of Kristen Lamb’s book, We Are Not Alone. Seriously. Just do it.
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