Hit with the terrifying realization that I will be out of town next week (you have to do a show now and then), followed by jury duty, which could be one day or one trial and that one trial could be straight out of Inherit the Wind, I spent the last 72 hours (more or less all of them), wildly revising the 100 pages the very nice agent requested from me. I am now hallucinating commas.

Anyway, I hit ‘send,’  and I actually feel much calmer. I’m on my way to another conference. With any luck I will get another excuse to stay up for 72 hours.



This will be my last blog post for awhile. I didn’t want my six regular readers to worry that I had been carried off by the herd of marauding deer that occupy our front lawn on a nightly basis, or, still worse that I’d run out of things to say*. It’s just that I have to finish editing 100 pages of the manuscript the very nice agent requested, in a very short time.

*I could do 10 pages on a hangnail.



Conferences are great! I love them! Worth every penny (she said as she looked at her pathetic bank balance). An agent requested 100 pages of a manuscript. Another agent asked me for three chapters of a different novel! The box lunch was like bad high school picnic. Hey, you can’t have everything!*

Raise your hand if you think you already do. Well, you’re wrong.



I have only been at the James River Writers Conference since last night and I have already learned two important things.

1. I should not even think about self publishing.

2. The Hilton Garden Inn makes a mean chicken pot pie.



Have you ever read something so beautiful and moving that you couldn’t get it out of your head? I just finished reading When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead, because Nice Young Agent said in an interview it was one of his favorite books as a kid (approximately ten years ago by my calculations). This left me with three conflicting emotions: I should stop writing, because I will never write anything that wonderful, I should write a lot more, because then I might someday write something that wonderful, I would rather use my seven minutes with Nice Young Agent talking about this book than my own.*

*Which I am not going to do. I might, however, find a way to trap him in an elevator, offer him a plate of cookies, and talk about the book.

p.s., to Nice Young Agent. If, by some cruel trick of fate, you happen to read any of my posts I assure you that 1. They aren’t about you and 2. I am condescending to everyone.