Swear some days that if everything wasn’t changing all the time I would not recognize my life one whit.
So, essentially, EVERYTHING is happening in the next three months. I’m moving into my own apartment, I’ve landed full-time at the Cinderella job, I’m committed to the Surrey International Writers Conference and I’m going to pop in for the Saturday at VCON, Vancouver’s local SF convention (the writing track there being marshalled by the capable and talented Sandra Wickham of Inkpunks and writerly fame).
I’ve also, after some twists, turns, and lucky timing, landed one of the SIWC Pitch Sessions with Donald Maass. Cue the happy freakout. Setting my expectations really low, of course, because I have never pitched before and I am sure the learning curve is steep — especially with the two novels I have ready right now that, at least to my ingenue sensibilities, don’t summarize neatly into a log line or elevator pitch. But then, that’s what I’m there to do, learn from agents what to do and how best to do it. I’ve been told that there are often additional pitch sessions available on site during the event and will try to hit as many as I can, providing that the agent in question reps what I’m writing.
Because that’s a potential problem, too. What I write (if I may poke fun at the title of my blog) is pretty different from project to project. Of the two completed novels I have right now, one straddles YA and is a solid urban/portal fantasy. The other is a secondary world, no-magic but with non-humans and a proto-steampunk sensibility with a 17th Century tech level. The stuff I want to write, having either started drafting or just in the planning stages, includes a contemporary horror with a twist, a weird western, an urban fantasy that tiptoes into magic realism, and a few science fictional things I can’t even nail down yet.
Who the hell is going to want to take on all that?
It’s a concern I keep coming to, though I realize it should be the least of them.
I expect, after I tuck away the last pumpkin of Halloween, that I will look back on the three months so newly behind me with November’s foggy sense of mystery. Just how did all that happen, anyway? What sorcery was that?
I’m excited, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like I will need more of an army at hand than I have. Once more unto the breach?
Speaking of war, I’ve made a promise to myself: when I sell my first novel, I will buy myself a sword. It had the heaviness of an oath when I thought the words, and my skin goose-bumped.
I have always wanted a sword of my own like I have wanted few things in this life; the vow feels right, and true. I mean to keep it.