Good news--and some not so good

In June I sent thirty pages of my mystery to a NY editor, an old acquaintance from Western Writers of America. I emailed him to ask for any suggestions on agents, and he said he's editing mysteries now, forget the agent for the time being, and send it to him. So I did, but it was right when I knew he was at the Western Writers convention, and since I hadn't heard from him I emailed today just to confirm that he had the pages and to tell him of my new web page. Since he had said to think in terms of three books, I ended with a cheerful note that I am six chapters into the second novel, which I've called No Neighborhood for Old Women--a shameless play on Cormac McCarthy's title. The editor thinks the second novel is a strong concept and strong title and should be first--which is really exciting, wonderful news, and I'm working tonight on an outline for him. But if it's first it means cannbilizing the first book to the point there would be little left. A small price to pay, I guess. But I'm excited, encouraged, all those things.
On the flip side, I'm seeing the downside of seventy. I know it's time for a colonoscopy (the thought is worse than the procedure) and I'm already into gearing up for extensive dental work, but tonight comes cheery word from my doctor that I have really really messed up my shoulder. Since it's not excruciating, just annoying, I told myself it was something minor that could be fixed with physical therapy. His words came as a shock. I will have to see a surgeon and find out what he recommends, what's involved, etc. Seventy, and I feel great, but the body seems to be falling apart--teeth, colonoscopy, shoulder. Bad things come in threes, so that should take care of it for, oh say ten years.
It's still beastly hot. My new rug and bed linens for the apartment have arrived, and I wanted to take the rug out there last night so I could unroll it. Then I realized if I took it myself, I'd have to drag it in the grass and dirt--not a good idea for a new rug. I was going to ask Jay (that handsome man!) to help, but it just seemed too hot. On the other hand, I don't think it would be good to let it stay rolled for two months until fall brings cooler weather. So I unrolled it in the guest room, where it matches absolutely nothing but sure does look pretty.
Back to the mystery and my gathering thoughts on it.

Holiday Weekend

What I dreaded as a long empty holiday weekend has turned busy. Today, Bino from the Star Cafe came and cleaned out my flower beds--he used to work for a landscaper. He carried away bags and bags of weeds and dead leaves, and he split my iris, which badly needed it. While he worked, Betty and I went to brunch, and then I came home to cook dinner for Jeannie (and kept some for myself).

I've also been reading lots of emails from Sisters-in-Crime and subgroups, like Senior Sleuths. I joined the Guppies group--Great Unpublished authors--where I reside with mixed feelings. I'm not unpublished, but I am in as a mystery writer. And I'm finding mystery writing is 70% promotion and 30% writing, if I'm to believe the emails I read. You can spend a full day following up on the emails and never have to put another word on the computer screen.

Yet the process of writing is going well. I'm into the second chapter of the second novel and have some ideas I like about where it will unfold--ideas that will I hope surprise a reader. I feel sort of --well, silly, maybe presumptuous writing a second novel when the first is unpublished (I never ever did that in the days of historical fiction) but on the other hand if I'm not confident about my writing, nothing will come of it (yes, Jamie, I hear you).

And I haven't once, as I feared, thought "Yikes! What am I going to do with the rest of the day?" Saturday night Jan said it didn't bother her if she didn't have anything to do. Charles and I both agreed we like to keep busy, and he said, "I'm good at manufacturing things if I don't have anything to do" Oh boy, is that me! Once again this morning I woke up with a head full of things I "should" do--laundry, cooking, linger over the paper (notice how I fit an unnecessary but pleasureable activity into a list of chores!) and I almost bounded out of bed. But I didn't.

A stalking cat and the dilemma of publishers, booksellers, and authors

My cat, at age 17, has become a stalker. He's always been affectionate and used to get on my desk and rub on my arm until he got a little love, but now he stalks. He sits on the end of the desk and stares intently at my dinner while I'm eating--as though willing the food to jump off the plate and to him. Tonight I locked him out of the study and enjoyed my supper in peace. When I'm in the kitchen he stares at me accusingly. He skulks around under the kitchen cabinets, looking for crumbs. The whole thing is he's hungry. His teeth are so rotten that he can no longer eat the dry food I used to leave out all the time. Now he eats the special kidney-diet canned food from the vet--read expensive there. Now I would give this aging friend all the food he wants--he deserves it at his ripe old age--but he wants fresh food every time. It's a delicate balance to give him enough but not too much--if it's left in his dish, even for an hour or two, he scorns it. My Scottish genes are too strong. I'm not going to throw out a perfectly good hunk of expensive food. So we're at war. I've won the early morning battle, I think by kicking visciously when he started to stalk me in the bed. Now he waits until the dog gets me up, and his dish is always cleaned of every little bit. So I know he can do it. Meantime, I alternate between feeling angry and guilty.
The Sisters in Crime blog is very informative and educational, and it's gotten me to thinking it's hard for both publishers and authors. Something I read last night made me think it's not wise to publish with the first independent small press that shows an interest--just when I was thinking okay, if a press likes my mystery and will do a decent job, I just want to see it in print. Agents don't want to look at you after you do that, and bookstores likely won't carry your book because it's probably nonreturnable. Ah, returns, there's the rub.
Bookselling is the only business I know where retailers can return unsold stock. My son Jamie is in the toy business, and the man who mentored him in that business, married to a publisher, used to rant, "Returnable! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Once something is sold, it's sold." But it isn't. Returns are a long-standing tradition in publishing, and since "big chain" stores rely on them, we're not likely to get it to change. But the blog mentor today, a bookseller, pointed out that if a publisher tries to push a book on non-returnable terms, he reads that as a signal that the publisher doesn't have real faith in his title. But for publishers, returns are a nightmare, especially in January or February and midsummer when stores clean out their shelves to prepare for a new season.
And what does this mean to an author? Well, a publisher may be reluctant to take on a new author, envisioning cartons of returns. And if you publish with a small, independent press, your book will probably be sold nonreturnable and bookstores won't be anxious to carry it because who knows if they can sell it
Writing the book is the least of the problems, but it's where I'm stuck. I have one mystery ready to go, featuring a real estate agent who renovates old houses. It's out right now to one agent and one indie publisher. Should I work on the sequel? Should I start a new book--maybe I could achieve more depth, and it seems logical with my background and interests that I write about cooking--but there are so many mysteries about cookiing, what can I do to make mine stand out. A dilemma.
I'm reading a lot of fiction right now.