I think the next time I write a book, I’ll be better prepared for the sit-around-and-wait times. But ugh, good lord, this round is killing me. I was like an open dam, just gushing words for the book, for Pith, for here. And I’d spend an hour or two with the manuscript every night. Then I’d piss-and-moan about it here.
It was a process!
I miss my process!
I know letting it sit and being sure K. can finish it up without feeling rushed is crucial to the quality of the book and thus the likelihood of selling it. I know the last bit of feedback I’m going to get will be incredibly useful.
And my May 22nd goal of sending out my first query is just an artificial deadline, imposed by me, mattering to no one.
But these have been some of the most enjoyable months of my life. That is how I want my life to go. And so I sit here fantasizing about getting back into it.
Or fantasizing about casting the HBO series, which I feel is inevitable.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Seriously. Is Casey still around? I’m totally going to need him to go out for the part of Kevin, the wrestling folk artist of questionable morals. I can’t think of anyone working in Hollywood right now how just looks like a good ole boy in quite the right way.
Possibly my time would be better spent finding a stunt double to tell my parents about the book. I’m such a chickenshit.