It's Monday, but Wednesday's coming...
WARNING: Sleep-deprived ramblings ahead. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!
Well, here it is. The week that I become an agented author.
Weird. (in the good way)
As of today, I have three agent offers on Camp Wylde, and I'm waiting to hear back from two agents who still have my full manuscript. On Wednesday, after many sleepless nights of mental aerobics, I will call my new agent on the phone and send off emails to the others who have offered to let them know what I've decided.
So. Weird. (Yeah... but still good)
I really feel like I'm in this amazing place, where no choice would be the wrong choice. The agents who have offered are all fantastic, passionate, and professional. I know that any one of them would be a really great champion for my book.
But I think I've managed to come to a decision, barring any interference from the universe at large... like giant merpeople coming out of the sea to sun themselves in the northern deserts of Nevada or whatever. Because that could totally make me pause.
There is also the possibility that I'll yawn myself to death at work this morning. And while yawn-induced death would make excellent fodder for a biography about my life, I wouldn't be there for it, which would make the whole thing suck.
It's always possible that the apocalypse is nigh, as has been predicted by the Republicans. But in my discussions with the forces of evil over the weekend, I was assured that Heath Care Reform will not, in fact, bring about the End of Days. (Nor does the resignation of the Governor of Alaska, despite the confusion generated by her announcement that she is Quitting-To-Avoid-Being-A-Quitter™. Evidently, the events surrounding Alaskan state politics have very little bearing on the universe as a whole. Who knew?!?) And while I'm as convinced as you are that Florence Henderson is the anti-Christ, she hasn't decided to make her move for power... yet. (Watch yourself, FloHen. I've got your number.) I tried to explain this to Republicans (i.e., my mother), to no avail.
Excessive use of parenthetical asides... also not a sign of the apocalypse. In case you were wondering
The final interference possibility is the least likely of them all, of course... My daughter could, in fact, set off the Baby Powder-powered war device I suspect she's been assembling during her nap times. The fact that she's only four, and I've yet to discover the secret hidden panel that opens her hidden laboratory does not deter my belief in this theory. (What do you mean I may have watched too many Dexter's Laboratory marathons on Cartoon Network?!?) We all know by now, of course, that the smartest use of such weaponry is as a threat to gain power and notoriety. And my child being the genius that she is would most likely never actually set off such a devise. Still, if she did, that would interfere greatly with my agenting plans.
But if none of that happens, I'll be an agented author on Wednesday, and then the world will return to normal, except I'll be smiling more.
Awesome for you... because I'm killer hot when I'm smiling.
Well, here it is. The week that I become an agented author.
Weird. (in the good way)
As of today, I have three agent offers on Camp Wylde, and I'm waiting to hear back from two agents who still have my full manuscript. On Wednesday, after many sleepless nights of mental aerobics, I will call my new agent on the phone and send off emails to the others who have offered to let them know what I've decided.
So. Weird. (Yeah... but still good)
I really feel like I'm in this amazing place, where no choice would be the wrong choice. The agents who have offered are all fantastic, passionate, and professional. I know that any one of them would be a really great champion for my book.
But I think I've managed to come to a decision, barring any interference from the universe at large... like giant merpeople coming out of the sea to sun themselves in the northern deserts of Nevada or whatever. Because that could totally make me pause.
There is also the possibility that I'll yawn myself to death at work this morning. And while yawn-induced death would make excellent fodder for a biography about my life, I wouldn't be there for it, which would make the whole thing suck.
It's always possible that the apocalypse is nigh, as has been predicted by the Republicans. But in my discussions with the forces of evil over the weekend, I was assured that Heath Care Reform will not, in fact, bring about the End of Days. (Nor does the resignation of the Governor of Alaska, despite the confusion generated by her announcement that she is Quitting-To-Avoid-Being-A-Quitter™. Evidently, the events surrounding Alaskan state politics have very little bearing on the universe as a whole. Who knew?!?) And while I'm as convinced as you are that Florence Henderson is the anti-Christ, she hasn't decided to make her move for power... yet. (Watch yourself, FloHen. I've got your number.) I tried to explain this to Republicans (i.e., my mother), to no avail.
Excessive use of parenthetical asides... also not a sign of the apocalypse. In case you were wondering
The final interference possibility is the least likely of them all, of course... My daughter could, in fact, set off the Baby Powder-powered war device I suspect she's been assembling during her nap times. The fact that she's only four, and I've yet to discover the secret hidden panel that opens her hidden laboratory does not deter my belief in this theory. (What do you mean I may have watched too many Dexter's Laboratory marathons on Cartoon Network?!?) We all know by now, of course, that the smartest use of such weaponry is as a threat to gain power and notoriety. And my child being the genius that she is would most likely never actually set off such a devise. Still, if she did, that would interfere greatly with my agenting plans.
But if none of that happens, I'll be an agented author on Wednesday, and then the world will return to normal, except I'll be smiling more.
Awesome for you... because I'm killer hot when I'm smiling.