I should be doing laundry today. The plan was to do laundry today. Dragged Husband to the store yesterday for laundry detergent so I could do laundry today. The store didn’t have the brand/type I like, I told myself not to be an idiot and chose something else. And yet, see my basket, perched on top of the full hamper, filled with…not laundry. Behind it, my file cabinet, filled with school stuff from the kids, medical info, and old bits of manuscripts, printouts of agent info, ancient rejection letters.
The good part of this move was that it kept me too busy to think for a bit. And by think, I mean obsessing about the lack of agent responses on my manuscript. I told myself if I hadn’t heard anything by the time we were moved in, it was okay. I’m still in a bigger better space, I still have a brand new dishwasher I’m infatuated with, I still have my own, personal workspace with a desk, I still wrote a novel I’m proud of. If I don’t receive any offers, so be it, right? This end is out of my control. So what if I never make a dollar from my writing? I’m sure as hell not alone in that. I will not sit at my new desk and wonder what the point of having it is. I’ll focus on my new space, I’ll continue to fix it up, I’ll keep blogging, I’ll continue planning my tank, I’ll stay on top of the laundry.
Recuperating, settling in, where do the days go? Happy Friday, Fringelings!
Welcome to my future beach house in a glass box. Remember that spot I said I was planning for a new tank? Fatigue came over last week, looked at it, and dubbed it the interrogation corner. He could have a point.
Where were you, on the night of the 25th?!
I will admit to being amused by the double take done by every person who’s walked into the apartment. I made a game of guessing a) if they would stop and stare or keep glancing at it, and b) how long before they broke down and asked. Hard to tell from this angle, but the tiled area is 4′ x 5′. Alas, I don’t get much company so the game lost its charm after a week.
Allow me to present the new future fringie reef.
Eventually this will be 80 gallons of sexy reefing goodness.
Even better, it’s in a prime viewing spot, easily watched from the couch and I can see it from my desk–though not so close as to be distracting when I’m trying to write. Assuming, of course, the rest of life settles down enough for me to write again. My desk. Have I mentioned that 100 times yet? It may not be a room of my own, but it feels pretty close.
A desk that isn’t my lap!
From this point on it will be slow going, for budgetary reasons and in the interests of good husbandry. The first commandment of reefing, “Nothing good happens fast in a reef tank.”
In case you’re wondering, poor Little Incredibly Stupid Dog hasn’t quite settled in yet. She’s still nervous, afraid of every new sound. Just breaks my heart, seeing how anxious she is.
I’d like to share her level of anxiety. Oh, and don’t tell Husband she’s on the couch.
Change the he to she and yup, that’s Mrs Fringe. Proof that Nerd Child was able to predict the future.
This move has not gone smoothly. In fact, I can say without hesitation this has been the most disorganized, chaotic, and s-l-o-w move I’ve ever made–and I’ve made many.
First there was the realization I was living in a clown car. Seriously, we had ten times the amount of shit we should have been able to fit in the last apartment. Then there was the fact that every time I lifted a hefty bag or moved a box, my back would cry. And then the kicker, an early flu/virus season. Art Child got sick, and then I caught it. The first day I was sick, I happened to have a meeting with Art Child’s teachers. “Sick while moving? Oh no.” “No worries, I have a strong immune system, never more than a nuisance head cold.” Mmm hmm. What’s that about famous last words? By the following night, I had 102° fever. I’m still not completely recovered, but no one else has gotten sick, so I’m not contagious, and I am improving. What I don’t have is stamina. Yanno, that trait needed to pack, move, and unpack.
We have been staying in the new apartment for the last six nights, but still have some miscellaneous crud to move up here, and then turn in the keys to the old apartment. Every morning I think, we should be able to knock this out by the end of the day, and every afternoon, round about noon, I think, oh-my-gawd-I’m-dying-I-can’t-do-one-more-thing. A model of efficiency, I tell ya.
The most welcome sight in the world.
Above, the saving grace. Big boy sneakers. My godson has come the last couple of weekends, to help with heavy lifting, shlepping, and bringing bags o’ crud to the basement. Man Child, bless his Herculean heart, also came last week. He took two days off from school to help sort and pack, and then did the majority of the heavy furniture lifting and moving. Mr and Mrs Smitholini also pitched in, putting up curtains and ceiling fans, general assistance and wondering what the fuck happened to me.
We did get some new pieces of furniture. I have a desk! A real desk! And it’s all mine, bwahahaha! And a new kitchen table, because mine didn’t fit in our new, smaller dining space. Luckily, Husband is in the furniture business, so when we realized the new table wobbles, he was able to fix it in no time.
Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct, a couple of matchbooks.
It is all getting done though. The first several days were like camping. The stove wasn’t hooked up, the kitchen sink didn’t work, the dishwasher (hooray!) was sitting in the living room, and did I mention that my refrigerator died the night before we moved it? The wireless internet didn’t reach the living room (where my desk is), and then it was spotty. Finally I have a reasonable connection, for the moment I’ll pretend those cables aren’t slithering down the hall floor waiting to trip me.
Sure she looks innocent while she’s sleeping.
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is very unhappy with the move and attendant chaos, and has been displaying her displeasure by peeing on the floor. Yesterday she decided it was time to meet the new neighbors. While I was cleaning, she snuck under the divider of our shared terrace, and walked into my next door neighbor’s living room. My bell rang, she came running and barking as usual. It was my neighbor, reporting the visit. Are you kidding me?! We had the same set up downstairs, she never did that.
Almost done. That’s what I keep saying. Well, that and knowing I’m getting myself a new tank as soon as possible. Besides, with the new, higher apartment comes a better view. This was our first morning, not a bad way to wake up–and no boxes on the horizon.
While it doesn’t quite feel like anything is happening, I am making headway. The envelopes above. There were over twenty of them on high shelves that lined my halls, plus dozens of loose rolled preschool paintings and 5 boxes of school and kiddo related stuff. And cards. Cards from them to us, us to them, Abuela y Abuelo to them, Grandma and Grandpa to them, even one from my grandmother to Man Child. Cards to me and Art Child from several friends met online. So freaking sweet, I wanted to melt with many of them.
My poor Man Child, we had a couple of years when he was 8,9,10 where it felt like a round robin of funerals and ICU visits. “Dear Dad, Please don’t die.” And Nerd Child, from homework on a page of vocabulary sentences, 1st grade, “My aunt was in a ventilator in the hospital.” There are fun ones, too. From NC’s second grade teacher, a note in response to his first homework of the year, an “about me” letter: “Dear Nerd Child, Wow, I’ve never met a kid who said Pink Floyd was his favorite band before.” A note from Art Child to me, “Dear Momy, Im sory, Im doo it nw. Lov lov lov lov” Whittled down to 5 envelopes, period. The shelves have been taken down.
And the fridge magnets. I don’t have any on my fridge in this apartment, it makes the kitchen feel too cluttered when you’re talking about such a small space. But my last apartment? Like 90% of other moms, the refrigerator was covered. Magnets holding pictures, drawings, receipts, phone numbers, appointment cards, glucose level logs, seizure logs, med titration schedules. Ok, maybe not quite like most other moms, but close enough. Apparently I had put all of those into one box when I was moving in here, it got put on a shelf to be dealt with later. Guess it’s later. In the box was the complete set of these:
Two sets, actually. I don’t know if they still sell them, they’re a little electronic learning game, magnetized so the main component and letters can all be stuck on the fridge, and it says the name and sound of the letter when fit into the main piece. The other set does the same, next step, slots for three letter words. Many, many hours playing with these. I was happy to pass them on to the nursery school.
The painting and the floors are close to finished in the new apartment. If all goes well, we’ll be able to really move within the next week or two, hooray! I spent the day celebrating by cuddling with my sick and sniffling girl, Dr Who on the TV. Ok, maybe I wasn’t hanging onto the Dr’s every word quite the way Art Child would have liked. Maybe I was cyber window shopping for tank equipment. I don’t know why I find shopping for curtains and medicine cabinets tedious, but protein skimmers and RO/DI water systems and salt mixes, oh my! Bestill my shriveled reefing heart.
We saw this sky the other evening, I had to take a photo to share.
True, my eyes are bloodshot as usual, but when I woke up and went out on the terrace, I had a moment. A really good moment. I could see stars. Several–the sky was that clear. And dark.
I was able to do my abbreviated yoga routine without hurting myself, another plus.
I know the summer is really over, because I’m sitting here with hot tea instead of iced. Still took Art Child to school wearing my shorts and flip-flops, though.
In between yoga and waking the girl, I found this on the table. He did it. Husband found the absolute perfect card for my annual 29th birthday celebration.
The new new math. Or, if you prefer, the new middle aged math.
I was able to get a decent amount of crap sorting and tossing accomplished yesterday, only 3,493 more piles to go! Unreal. How does so much shit accumulate? I look around and swear I don’t want any of it, I’m going to throw it all away. Then I start sorting through, and can only convince myself to part with half. I can weed through the kids old schoolwork. I don’t really need every test, homework assignment, and nursery school painting. I can’t throw away Man Child’s 9/11 journal: his eight year old perspective on what happened from a child’s point of view here in New York, in the days and weeks following the attacks. I can’t throw away Nerd Child’s book from kindergarten, which he dedicated to himself, because he did the work. I can’t throw away Art Child’s early art, or the eleventy billion logs, notes, and receipts that comprise her medical history. I can’t throw away the Christmas card from Husband, assuring me the prior bad year would soon fade from memory. (lies, by the way–crystal clear) I can’t throw away my old, snail mail rejection letters. Can I? Maybe I can. Though they are safely tucked away in the file cabinet, it isn’t like they’re making a mess.
I went up to the new apartment, stared down the ancient monster of a range that comprises half the kitchen.
Chocolate pudding brown. When it was in style, it was called coppertone.
In case you’re wondering, I’m going to bring my beautifully plain white stove upstairs with me. The work is being done. I’m not sure how we’re going to eat for the rest of the year, but most of the major cracks and holes in the walls have already been repaired.
I haven’t worked on my short story in several days, and doubt I will today. I’d like to, but there’s more crap sorting to do. I’m still waiting on agent responses for Astonishing, and as I sort crap, I can imagine my little email bing is notifying me of an offer, and fantasy-stock my soon to be real (maybe, I hope) new tank. One of my friends is making plans to come and visit later this fall. Whee! We’ve never met in person, but after years and conversations, photos and laughs, she’s as real to me as Fatigue.
Hello Fringelings! Lots of life since I last posted. Still adjusting to life without Big Senile Dog, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is continuing to have a hard time, searching for her buddy.
I just said goodbye to Nerd Child. You’d think with the years all this would get easier, wrapping up summer, saying goodbye to the boys, school starting up again…but it doesn’t. For me, anyway. Some people say the first year is the hardest, but I disagree because after the first year, you know just how much you’re going to miss them. Supporting each boy’s desire and decision to go to boarding school wasn’t easy, but the school Man Child attended was great for him, and the school Nerd Child is attending has him happier than I ever knew was possible to be in high school. This is a big year in Fringeland. Man Child is in his senior year of college, Nerd Child is a junior in high school (though they don’t call it junior year in his school, all the boarding schools have strange and individual terms for the grades), and Art Child…Art Child begins eighth grade tomorrow.
Eighth grade means insanity here in New York. High school admissions. For those unfamiliar with the pomp and circumstance of city schools, entering high school isn’t limited to the “usual” adolescent stress of worrying about getting lost in new hallways and remembering where your locker is. It’s a process. There is no zoned high school for us, so even limiting the choices to public schools, there are tours and applications and interviews, portfolios and auditions. Because being a young teen and parenting in the city isn’t stressful enough. So yesterday, in preparation, I approached the crate. Then I spent an hour and a half sorting through and tossing out all the junk we no longer need. I thought I did this after Nerd Child’s high school admission rounds were finished, but apparently not. From what I found, I hadn’t tossed anything since I cleared out after Man Child’s college admissions.
The Crate
This is my super system for school admissions. Sure, the savvy moms use Excel spreadsheets and apps, but I’ve got a crate. The above pic is what’s left after clearing out. The latest high school books from the Department of Education, a notebook I’ve used for notes and tracking since I began this fun eight years ago, a notebook from Nerd Child’s high school process (excellent tips that are still applicable from the admissions counselor of his middle school), and acceptance letters and packages (those I could find, anyway. I know several are missing). Because mama pride. All this experience, I’m more relaxed, right? Nope. This will be the first time everything is riding on the public school admissions, and Art Child would like an arts-focused school, so much will be new again. Three different kids, interests, and abilities means different school choices. Crap!!!!
New Yorkers, of course, believe this is the best and only valid way to have their kids in the best schools, and have the best college options later. Oh bullshit. Colleges around the world–even those “top,” Ivy League colleges–are filled with kids who didn’t go to the “top” NYC schools. And I’m having an ongoing panic attack thinking of many of those not top NY public schools that kiddos are assigned to when they don’t make their choice schools. Can’t I just go back to the beach and stay there, eyes closed and iPod in my ears? I may not have done anything fabulous or gone on vacation, but I will miss this summer.
I did have a couple of pieces of good news last week. *drumroll please* The larger apartment came through. Oh. my. God. I have no idea how we’re going to get it habitable and still have enough money to eat this year, no idea how we’re going to get packed and moved without the boys here to help without my back literally breaking, but it’s going to happen. Even if I have a stroke from the price quotes I’m hearing for painting and floor installation, it will happen. Even if they don’t fix the toilet that’s currently doubling as a fountain, it will happen. And luxury of luxuries, a second toilet, a little half bathroom. Two! I’m so thrilled by this the firstsecond third thing I did was go up and scrub that toilet. The first was sweeping, the second was bathe Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, who was gray and sneezing after spending a few hours up there with me. The thought of moving into an apartment that won’t immediately be covered in a layer of dog fur is…strange. Maybe not bad, but strange. (the little one doesn’t shed)
Another bit of good news. I had applied to be a mentee through the WoMentoring Project, and received an email from the agent I applied to for mentoring, and yes! I/Astonishing was chosen. What, specifically, will this mean for me and Astonishing? No fucking clue, but it won’t be bad, and could potentially be fantastic. Actually, being chosen is already fantastic. Funny, because when I wrote the essay for the application, I was thinking about all my application essay experience–writing parent essays for kiddos’ school admissions. And I’ve written many, many of those, each school has their own special set of essay questions. Hmmm, if I never earn a dollar for my fiction, maybe someone will pay me a dollar for admission essays. (Kidding of course, that would be unethical.)
Last week Mrs Smitholini and I celebrated thirty years of friendship. I suggested matching tattoos, but for some reason Mr S didn’t care for that idea. So we went to see Wicked. Just Mrs S and I, like two grownups, a perfect show to celebrate friendship.
So as the season gets ready to change, changes in Fringeland. Good stuff, nerve-wracking stuff, life.
If she could, she’d be dressing herself in black from head to tail.
And spent a couple of days looking at this view
Pool!
Ok, maybe it’s true that an overnight in the suburbs with Art Child isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I imagined a vacation this summer, but I take what I can get. I needed to get out of the city, away from the waiting and waiting to hear about the apartment, because I’m a peasant. And apparently peasants aren’t worthy of timely responses, regardless of how much money is involved. And a couple of days of laughter with friends are always a good thing. Besides, look what I got to snack on while poolside
Blackberries!
once I valiantly fought off this guy
Ok, I waited for him to finish and fly away, but I was still brave.
I floated in the pool, felt my freckles multiply, and watched Art Child turn blue having a great time
Don’t be silly, I don’t sub skate, but it makes an excellent flotation device.
Mr and Mrs Smitholini and I had dinner outside, and had a visit from a neighboring family.
Mr and Mrs Tick dropped by
with their children, Lyme and Disease
The four legged members of the household were particularly happy for the company.
She let the guests know exactly where they should go
while he watched her
and he wished they would both stfu and let him enjoy his massage.
Later in the evening, Mr. Chic–artist and model extraordinaire, third born of the Smitholinis, about to return to his art college– gave Art Child a trim. Her bangs are now perfect, she is beyond thrilled, and all is right with the world.
The following morning, I tried to snap photos of the bluejays chasing each other from tree to tree, but they were too damned fast. On the way home, we stopped in a new to us fish store, where Mrs Smitholini and I drooled over the gorgeous and healthy fish and coral. They even had frag tanks with very reasonably priced pieces (“frags” are fragments of coral reef colonies, a more budget friendly option than buying entire colonies for your tank, not to mention the thrill of watching a tiny frag thrive and grow into a colony in your very own slice of the ocean). I had a long chat with the manager about the latest in LED fixtures for the best coral growth, and then, in the back, I found they had the tank of my dreams. THE tank. 80 gallons of shallow reef goodness. I inspected the glass, the silicone, inspected the cabinet under the tank, climbed a ladder and peered into the back chambers. Mrs Smitholini stopped me from actually climbing into the tank. She’s always been my voice of reason.
This is my morning. Every morning. I begin each day on the terrace with my coffee and my phone for a morning email check in with a friend–“ready?”– who lives many states away. Whichever of us is awake first sends the first email and cybercup.
But there’s a new and important difference to this little tableau. Can you guess what it is? Until yesterday morning, I didn’t have a real grown up sized chair, or this cute table. That’s right, for the past seven years I have woken up anywhere between four and six AM, gone onto the terrace, and sat down with my coffee and phone, pretty much on the floor, no table.
What do I mean by pretty much on the floor? This.
See the difference?
Yes, I’d been using the low-slung reject beach chair–rejected for the beach because the back can’t be adjusted/reclined. Why, Mrs Fringe, wasn’t your butt cold sitting on that in the winter months? Yes, yes it was. Mrs Fringe, didn’t that aggravate your back over the past year, when you’ve been dealing with the back pain from Satan? Yes, yes it did. When I first moved into this apartment, a little patio set went on the list. But yanno, the list is long, and things like a real outside chair for myself fall way down to the bottom of the list of needs and wants that never stops growing. We’re still waiting for an official *go* on the larger apartment, but it seems like it is going to come through, and this would push a patio set that much further down the list. Because budget.
Initially, I didn’t really mind. First of all, how could I complain when I actually had an apartment with a terrace? And you all know how much I love the beach, so I would sit in my little chair, close my eyes, and pretend I was on a beautiful beach somewhere else.
When Mr Smitholini first saw this, years ago, he laughed and told me he was going to bring me the sandbox from when his kids were younger, so I could really live the dream. Not a bad thought, really. It became a running joke, every time I spoke with Mrs Smitholini on the phone, every time they came to visit. They don’t come very often. Let’s face it, driving and parking in the city sucks, we are 8000 people and creatures in a two bedroom apartment, and their family of seven squished around the dining room table in addition to my family of five creates an, ummm, cozy dinner. They have a spacious and beautiful home in the suburbs, so it’s more frequent that we go to visit at their house.
Until about two weeks ago, it had been a couple of years since they were here. Life, work, twelve people’s schedules…not so easy to coordinate. But then they were here, in dress clothes because they came over after a family function. Mr Smitholini wanted to sit on the terrace to have his cigar, and I, the hostess with the mostest, offered him the beach chair. He was a good sport about it, Mrs Smitholini and I sat on the ground, but, ummm, suit + beach chair + middle aged bodies + middle of Manhattan = not so fun. We went to visit them two days ago, and Mrs Smitholini had this present for me.
A real, grown-up patio set. Two (matching!) chairs and a table. One of her kiddos even put it together for me before we got there. Squee! It isn’t just the furniture that’s a gift, the past two mornings have been a gift to my back, as I settled with my coffee and phone, watching the sun rise.
I don’t consider myself an outdoorsy gal, but I need to start my days like this. Sun, rain, or snow, I have to be outside. My beach house will remain a fantasy, but I figure out what I can to get my imagination there with the pesky reality of my body being here in the city. Time on the terrace, forever friends, and soon I hope, another little slice of the ocean in a glass box.
So here I sit, on a grown-up chair, like a real person on the terrace. My laptop even fits comfortably on the table, coffee cup to the side. Are you ready for coffee?
Because I’m more than a bit out of focus. I think about lines a lot. Don’t cross this line, don’t cross that line, balance on that one over there. Sometimes I feel like the lines shift, but do they really, or is it my perception–and oh! is that line on a fucking hill?
The line I’m thinking about this morning is, of course, writing and publishing. There’s a small group I’ve been spending some online time with. All talented and writing varied genres, all filled with optimism and hope. Different stages of pursuing publication, a couple who are self pubbing with thought and intention. Needless to say angst and self-doubts are part and parcel of writing, querying, and submitting, everyone takes turns pumping up whoever needs it most on any given day. Most of the members of this group are young, those who aren’t young are relatively new to the process. I don’t mean new as in still learning basic storytelling, but new as in less than 5 years of seriously pursuing publication.
I’m not young. Or new. At the moment I’m not writing or submitting. I still have several requested fulls out, but at this point any responses that come from them will be unexpected.
Am I the fly about to be captured, the trap that can only wait for food, or the blackened trap that needs to be removed before fungus sets in?
I don’t want any pep talks. I’m not angsting, thinking my words and stories truly suck. They don’t.
To me, worse than limping along to the battle cry of “I coulda been a contender” is the nonagenarian still waiting for their big break. Yes, I see/hear it. New York. Not that I’m ninety, or qualify for the senior discounted Metrocard, but still. I have to figure out if I’ve crossed the line from being patient and persistent to delusional.
There’s a part of my brain that will always be taking notes for future characters, will see that one moment, hear that one phrase that begins a story in my head. I will probably always write. I love blogging, I’ve enjoyed the experience of posting a couple of stories here on the blog, and suspect I will continue doing so every so often. But full length novels? Querying? Submitting? There’s a phrase I’ve heard a lot over the past ten years or so, maybe it was always there and didn’t come across my radar before, I don’t know–return on investment. Writing full length manuscripts, querying, submitting to the paying lit mags, these are things that require a lot of time, energy, work, and focus. I can’t help but wonder at this point if it’s a poor use of limited resources.
English: Drawing of Marie de Lorraine as the Duchess of Valentinois. She wears a ball gown (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I’ve heard people talk about sharing their writing, how it feels/can feel like being naked. Not me. I don’t feel exposed when I share my work. Not to say I’m always completely confident, it’s like getting dressed and made up for an evening out–I think I look good, but I’m still hoping for some validation from whoever I go out with/run into. Cause there’s nothing worse than thinking you’ve got your game face on, and you run into someone in the lobby who asks if you’ve been ill. Because yes, that’s when I’m most likely to make the effort, when I feel the worst, physically or emotionally. That or I haven’t done laundry.
But submitting, querying…that’s a different story. At first I thought this end was more like working the pole, but no. Stripping may not be the most desirable way for every woman to earn a living, but it does earn dollars. This? Not a dime. I know, I know, I should have done this when my boobs were still in the same zip code as the rest of me. Living the dream, oh yes. The dream where you realize you’re standing in Times Square with no clothes on, not even a guitar to cover the saggy bits, a la The Naked Singing Cowboy.
Yah, yah, I’m not supposed to write these types of posts. Because for as much as you educate yourself about the business of publishing, follow agent and editor blogs and tweets about how things work, what their days are like, how many rejections they send daily (or don’t send, in these days of no response means no), the unpubbed and unagented are supposed to pretend we’re pure and innocent and virginal–just lucky enough or brilliant enough to know how to follow the rules or break the rules in a way that works, and haven’t received any rejections from anyone else. No matter how many times you read or hear publishing industry professionals talk about the many, many reasons they reject a work that often have nothing to do with with the quality of the writing, nope, those are the other wannabes. Not you, of course. Because, just like a wanton woman of yesteryear, no one’s going to want you/your work if someone else has already sampled the goods and didn’t like it enough to make a legally binding offer.
I’m a 40,000 year old woman with three children who are closer to grown than not. I think my days of playing the virgin are over. And Fringeland is about being honest, a blog to explore what it means to be downwardly mobile without being crushed by those climbing up.
Those stories you hear about people who receive an offer of rep and/or publication their first try? Their first dozen tries? Bullshit. Not saying they aren’t real, they are, but they are the exceptions, not the rule. I’d like to have been one of those stories, I’d like to be the mega lotto jackpot winner, but I’m not. The rules, the rules, all the rules passed on from wannabe to wannabe. The rules about how to interpret rejections, the nice and orderly progression from brusque form letters to nice form letters to personalized letters to invitations to submit more work to acceptance. Oh, the squeals of anticipation upon requests for fulls, personalized rejections, “you’re almost there!” Or not. I’ve been almost there since I started. Contracts in mirror are a fucking mirage, forget closer than they appear. The rules about the right way to query. Bullshit. There are wrong ways to go about querying, but no one right way. And hell, even amongst the wrong ways, there are stories of those who queried completely “wrong,” and still got an offer. C’mon now, there isn’t an agent or wannabe out there who hasn’t heard the story of the twelve year old kid who called the agent to query his book and got an offer. Not right then and there, and I don’t recommend calling agents’ offices when every US agent says not to do so, but obviously a phone call isn’t always the immediate and permanent never-to-be-published-blacklisted-forever-and-the-dystopia-beyond it’s portrayed to be. Does this mean I’m not smarter than a sixth grader?
I read broadly, across many genres. Yes, I have a special love for literary fiction, but I also love thrillers–political and psychological, some horror, contemporary, narrative non-fiction, and poetry. I read classics, and I read what’s being published today. Some books are so fabulous I want to swallow them so they’re permanently part of me, some are entertaining reads to pass an afternoon, and some, well, some I wonder what it is I’m missing that they were represented by an agent, championed by an editor, and published, a trade paperback I picked up for $14.00 off the shelf of the bookstore and wish I had instead tucked those dollars into someone’s g-string at the local Girlz Girlz Girlz. All my reading tells me something. I can write. Sharing manuscripts with writing friends (published and un, agented and un) and reading their feedback confirms I can write–if you don’t write, you’ll have to trust me here, no one is more adept at ripping apart a manuscript than others who write–feedback I’ve received from industry professionals tells me I don’t, after all, look sick when I think I look good.
Mrs Fringe hasn’t been innocent in a long time, if ever. But I’m still naked, and even though it’s July, it’s fucking cold outside.
mrsfringe 