Thursday, October 9, 2014
A little over a month ago I sent out a pile of queries to agents. Each of them suggested that I would hear if he/she were interested in EDITH, and that might take four or five weeks. So far, I’ve received two written notices of disinterest, and ten silences. I’ve forgotten how benumbing this kind of waiting is. In the past month, I’ve read four novels, every page of Bon Appetit, several pages twice until I realized I was too enervated to cook more than frozen pasta. In the mass of incoming seasonal catalogs, I’ve found potential Christmas presents for all members of my family despite our agreement that we won’t give each other gifts anymore. I’ve watched stupid stuff on TV that sent me to my white wine bottle. Waiting.
And as of today it’s been five weeks. I’ve gained five pounds. My knees have begun to crackle from disuse. I’ve run out of books on my Must Read list. I realize I have to make some kind of decision, get back on track. But which track? Writing? Marketing? A new round of agent searching? Volunteering at the kitchen for homeless men? Knitting that sweater I bought yarn for ten years ago? No, can’t do that; the moths got there before I did. What, then?
One of the advantages of being almost eighty is that one realizes nothing she decides at this point is forever. Maybe if she’s lucky, for five years. The track she chooses should be fulfilling, brain-joggling, easy on the knees, lined with friends and occasional laughs. It would be comforting to move along this track holding hands with folks she loves.
And who love her--despite the fact that her novel can’t find an agent, that despite spending hundreds of dollars on publicity, her other novels have sold three copies this summer.
And maybe because of those facts, a grand daughter tells me I am a role model for her--I just keep writing, no matter what.
A kind of legacy, I guess. Maybe better than a grandmother’s book on her shelf.
So I’m in the midst of deciding. Writing beats knitting a sweater that won’t fit even if I could salvage the wool; it beats standing in front of huge grill stirring green beans and onions; it beats eating myself into late onset diabetes; it beats allowing my brain to dissolve into mush at a much faster rate than it is going now.
Yes. From now on, I just won’t think about selling what I’m writing. What a concept!