So I sent “Grandpa’s Heart” off, via e-mail, with soft kisses and bids of “Godspeed,” to a literary agent that I don’t know from Adam.
I’ve done this with various works before. Sometimes to an agent, sometimes straight to the publisher. I very rarely hear back, and when I do it’s never good. Sometimes they swaddle the words well, and I appreciate that.
But it only takes one “yes,” or so I hear.
What I hate about my own writing is the poignancy. Every thing is so damn sweet at the end. Not this blog, usually, bot other things. I wonder if I write that way out of some sense of trying to still be “the nice girl,” (though surely that ship has sailed?) or if that is really, truly what’s in my heart. In spite of all of what I have learned otherwise.
Too soon to tell, I guess.
Still in pain, but trying to ignore it. Nothing is good, nothing can be enjoyed or savored or appreciated, when you are in pain. I’m trying to avoid the prescription NSAIDS because my tums tums is starting to hurt, but I think I have about five more minutes before the combination of half day at school, painful neck leading to stiff and sore shoulder, well-meaning but f-ing self centered husband, and impending afternoon waiting at the pool for the kids to finish their lessons (why is it always so damn hot in there?) are gonna undermine my resolve.
Me Too needs the iPad for more Toca Salon. Putting me in my place, as usual.