I have a new book due for AVON. They hadn’t liked my latest proposal.
After wailing and gnashing of teeth (which of course, I stoically kept to myself, thinking I’d soon come up with a better one), I realized I couldn’t think of another book to offer!
This isn’t so rare, or strange, at least, for me. Once a novel starts reeling off in my head, there’s little room for anything else. This also explains the piled up newspapers, forgotten bills, and the general air of inattention I sometimes – often – usually have, only worse. But my idea was gently rejected. So I had to set to work on a new one.
Not these Crickets, mind you.
February – finally getting that skulking affect, like a petty thief creeping around the mall. Feeling guilty. Panic enters, stage right.
And then – Lo! And Behold! It came to me. Completely. A good book. One I could enjoy because if I don’t love writing it, how can I expect anyone else to ever like reading it?
Sometimes novels come to you slowly, bit by bit. Sometimes you wake up with them sitting on your forehead, full-blown and whole as an egg.
And sometimes you have to forget the whole thing for a while, and let ideas simmer in the back brain. But now I have it, and now I’m writing the proposal. It feels wonderful.
(Do NOT ask what I’ll do if my editor hates it.)