I've been proofreading my mystery novel one more time--it's amazing how many typos you find even the fifth or sixth time through. And today I sent a proposal--letter, synopsis, and five pages--off to an agent. I've queried three agents already--one that I know confessed reluctantly that he liked it but he didn't love it. We agreed that he's not into cozies but likes hard edge mysteries. He wants Ellery Queen and I'm writing Murder She Wrote. The other two agents declined to look at it, and I seriously doubt they read the proposal--it's hard to break through that circle. But I sent it today to an agent recommended to me who's web site says she handles lots of mysteries. PS: the title is Dead Space and it doesn't refer to outer space. It's made clear on the first few pages--but I'd love opinions about it.
I told Jamie once that maybe the reason I'd never sold well to NY publishers is that I didn't ever believe in myself enough to believe I could be a best-selling writer. He, who's all about self confidence, agreed. But this time I believe in that novel. I think its good. When I read a mystery, I'm delighted if I get so wrapped up in the lives of the people and their world that I'm reluctant to leave when I finish the book--and that's how I feel about this one. When I came to the final, climactic scene, I felt my anticipation rising--now I wrote that scene, so I know full well what happens. But I found the tension so strong that in the middle of reading it I got up to get a glass of wine! And now I'm already plotting and planning the second novel in the series--there's some great stuff to come. I can't figure out if working on the sequel (I've got about ten pages written and it beging smashingly with a woman confessing that she just shot her husband "in his sorry ass") is a sign of great self-confidence or a waste of time. I may go ahead and work on it until some paying job comes along. Meantime, my neighbor Sue, a most literate person though not a mystery fan, has asked to read the manuscript, and I'm delighted, waiting for her opinion.
And if this agent doesn't take it? I've got a couple of ideas up my sleeve--an old acquaintance with a possible publishing house, the first agent for recommendations of other agents. I'm not giving up. So send me your positive thoughts, please.
I took my cat to the vet today. He's 17, has been eating voraciously and yet seeming to lose weight, and his coat is not as lustrous and beautiful as it once was (he's a long-hair). In fact, his tail is downright puny, and it was once full and magnificent. I suspected thyroid--he was tested last May and got an okay on diabetes and kidneys but wasn't tested for thyroid. Today he showed early signs of kidney disease, so common in older cats, particuarly males. The thyroid comes back tomorrow but if positive, as both the vet and I expect, it presents a dilemma--the most effective treatment is radiation for $1200. I'd do it easily for a young cat, but it doesn't seem practical for a 17-year-old with incipient kidney disease. Fortunately, there are medications. Still I know I won't have him for many years and I'm sad--he's the best cat I ever knew, more loving and absolutely the most beautiful. He has a host of fans among my friends, including Carol who came, cat cage in hand, this morning to help me take him to the vet.
Whoosh, full and busy day. I think I'll go read a mystery.
I told Jamie once that maybe the reason I'd never sold well to NY publishers is that I didn't ever believe in myself enough to believe I could be a best-selling writer. He, who's all about self confidence, agreed. But this time I believe in that novel. I think its good. When I read a mystery, I'm delighted if I get so wrapped up in the lives of the people and their world that I'm reluctant to leave when I finish the book--and that's how I feel about this one. When I came to the final, climactic scene, I felt my anticipation rising--now I wrote that scene, so I know full well what happens. But I found the tension so strong that in the middle of reading it I got up to get a glass of wine! And now I'm already plotting and planning the second novel in the series--there's some great stuff to come. I can't figure out if working on the sequel (I've got about ten pages written and it beging smashingly with a woman confessing that she just shot her husband "in his sorry ass") is a sign of great self-confidence or a waste of time. I may go ahead and work on it until some paying job comes along. Meantime, my neighbor Sue, a most literate person though not a mystery fan, has asked to read the manuscript, and I'm delighted, waiting for her opinion.
And if this agent doesn't take it? I've got a couple of ideas up my sleeve--an old acquaintance with a possible publishing house, the first agent for recommendations of other agents. I'm not giving up. So send me your positive thoughts, please.
I took my cat to the vet today. He's 17, has been eating voraciously and yet seeming to lose weight, and his coat is not as lustrous and beautiful as it once was (he's a long-hair). In fact, his tail is downright puny, and it was once full and magnificent. I suspected thyroid--he was tested last May and got an okay on diabetes and kidneys but wasn't tested for thyroid. Today he showed early signs of kidney disease, so common in older cats, particuarly males. The thyroid comes back tomorrow but if positive, as both the vet and I expect, it presents a dilemma--the most effective treatment is radiation for $1200. I'd do it easily for a young cat, but it doesn't seem practical for a 17-year-old with incipient kidney disease. Fortunately, there are medications. Still I know I won't have him for many years and I'm sad--he's the best cat I ever knew, more loving and absolutely the most beautiful. He has a host of fans among my friends, including Carol who came, cat cage in hand, this morning to help me take him to the vet.
Whoosh, full and busy day. I think I'll go read a mystery.
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