I would have thought I’d be much farther along by now.
I finished the last draft of my first novel, Califar, in the spring. Now it’s December. Time flies like a banana. No, wait. Fruit flies like a banana.
In the mean time, the global economy has collapsed and people have suddenly forgotten how to read. Bookstores are in trouble. Tumbling tumbleweeds fill Main Street, and unread newspapers collect in soggy drifts against shuttered doorways. What’s an aspiring writer to do?
Apparently, dither. I have found it hard to actually risk rejection of my novel by sending it blindly out to agents. I have no problem getting on stage in front of thousands of people, but sending my words out to a single person–oh, that’s tough!
Some wimp am I, apparently.
So in an effort to actually make some progress (apart from working on my second novel–more on that some other time) I stayed late at the office one evening, resurrected a short story from the past, and submitted it to the New Yorker.
Might as well start at the top if I’m going to collect my requisite hundred-an-one rejections. I’d feel pretty bummed if I got rejected by Podunk Press Online, but a New Yorker rejection seems a-okay.
Of course, I’ve heard nothing at all from them, and it’s been a couple of weeks. Time to pick up the pace. Now, where’s that online submission link for Podunk Press?