What to write?

I could easily write a gossip-filled analysis of the social goings-on at this year’s Pikes Peak Writers Conference–complete with names, dates, and mortal sins committed. After all, it was a weekend full of drinking, cussing, flirting, rumor-mongering, boundary-pushing, drinking, young-meat stalking, agent-and-editor-meat stalking, drinking, talk of gay porn, lesbianism, and open marriages, drinking, propositioning, ass-kissing, ass-grabbing, ass-smacking, slander, infamy and–did I mention?–drinking. And that was just Saturday night. In the lobby. Between 11:52 pm and 11:54 pm. Mostly involving Cicily Janus.

But it would be too easy to write a column about such sordid topics. Besides, I have a dim recollection that something else happened this weekend during the non-drinking time. Something involving…umm…oh yeah! I remember. There was cussing, flirting, rumor-mongering, boundary-pushing, talk of gay porn, lesbianism, and open marriage, drinking…and that was just Jene Jackson’s book pitch. Which brings me to my point: gratitude.

For the last few months I’ve often vented my frustrations about waiting to hear from publishers and getting the occasional rejection. And yet, I’m ahead of the curve. This conference included so much relaxing and ribaldry for me because, for the first time ever, I wasn’t desperately working on a pitch or scheming about how to get to the right table to say the right things to effectively make an impression on an agent who was surrounded by hundreds of fellow writers doing the exact same thing.

I was, instead, lucky enough to have my agent at the conference. Meeting her for the first time in the flesh was a great privilege and joy, reminding me how lucky I am to have her in my corner. In other words — Aaron — quit all your damn whining. And yet, I still feel wretched whenever I think of the struggles  ahead–not only to find a publisher, but also to make a book successful enough to give me a bonafide career–things which still feel as out of reach as sobriety and good judgment were on Saturday night.

Meanwhile, my still-to-be-agented-friends would doubtless lie, cheat, steal, sacrifice, kill, and give their third virginities to trade places with me. And that’s just Deb Courtney (who will no doubt be agented soon–so please, Deb, don’t kill me…as for the 3rd virginity…we’ll talk).

If I had more time, I would continue this entry with case studies of three writers at different points in their careers to illustrate how long and strange this journey is and how curiously different yet the same the perspective is from any given stage (unagented, agented, published). Since Thursday is almost over, though, I’ll just go ahead and put that off to next week.

In the meantime, did anyone see outgoing PPW prez Chris Mandeville with the Navy boys on Friday night?

Dearest readers,

I had hoped to have an entry before conference got underway, but my daycare is closed today and conference starts tomorrow. Please check back for a conference follow-up next week.

Thanks!

It’s been roughly five weeks since I got the wonderful/agonizing news that my book was being presented to the board at Harper Collins for possible acquisition. Since then, I have never been more than a few feet out of range of my phone. I monitor my email by the minute. And yet…no news is still just no news. I realize I need to be relaxed about all of this. What ever will be will be. It’s not easy, though. If the decision from the board goes in my favor, it will be, arguably, the single most life-changing piece of news I’ve ever received.

Well…there was the bit about my wife getting pregnant. Twice. But while that was life-changing (both times), it was also something we were expecting. And the only comment it made about my general worth as a person was that I was, like the vast majority of men, not infertile. Getting published on the other hand means that a lifetime of dreaming and aspiration has not been (entirely) ill spent. It means that I’m not a fool to be pursuing a career that most of my family considers reckless, silly or just plain dumb. It means that a door will open, maybe just a crack, but enough for me to begin shoving myself through.

I’m not imagining I’ll haul in a massive advance and be able to quit my day job or that Oprah will be calling me  to discuss my place in her book club–I simply imagine that I’ll be able to walk into a bookstore in a year or so and find my work in the company of that of so many of my heroes. I’ll be able to hold my book in my hands–to see my name on the cover page–to run my fingers over the text and know that ten years of work has had a tangible result. I can call myself a writer, or author, or novelist, and then back that up with something I’ve actually gotten published. I can be what I have always dreamed that I am. That probably sounds horribly maudlin and reeks of pathos, but it’s the best way I can describe this yearning.

Alas. For now, the waiting continues.

Not wanting this diascribe to be merely a dumping ground for vomit writing, I have published somewhat infrequently. As a means of generating traffic and regular readership the effectiveness of this strategy rates a little below a schnauser mating with a tennis shoe, and a little above the war on drugs. Therefore, I shall be embarking on a bold, new direction in diascribblation.

Starting this Thursday (the 13th), all future entries will appear on Thursdays (at some point). If you are one of my regular readers (either one), you can now rest assured that you only need to check in weekly for updates. If you are one of my irregular readers (i.e., Reader #3 as I like to call you), now you too can become a regular reader, entitled to all the rights and privileges thereof, namely…umm…weekly updates.

I got a lovely call from my agent the other day. We had both assumed my first book was dead on arrival. Apparently, however, the book had been passed from some executive editor at Harper Collins to his assistant who read it and … loved it! The assistant had called my agent to tell her he was going to try to get approval from the board to publish the book as a trade paperback original. Crap!

Four times in this process I’ve been given tangible hope that something good was going to happen. My agent had a close friend who she thought would be very interested, a senior editor absolutely loved everything she’d read so far, an executive editor wanted a second read, a publisher really liked the book and was trying to decide if he wanted to bid. Each time, the result has been the same…I get really excited and hopeful such that I have trouble sleeping some nights and I check my email 4.2 billion times a day. I daydream constantly of what I’m going to tell my family, particularly those who’ve always disapproved of my reckless decision to be an author. I work on my marketing plan. And then…flomp…the great belly-flop into the concrete bottom of the empty pool that is rejection.

So…this time, I will do my best to not get too excited. I’ll focus my mind on things I have some control over, like my next book and my annoying job. I’ll check my email only 4.19 billion times a day. I’ll prepare for the fantastic Jeffrey Deaver seminar this weekend (and by the way, if you’re not planning to attend, but you can, you definitely should–it’s going to be great–see my previous blog entry for more info). Now, if only it wasn’t so hard to type with my fingers crossed…

Sorry all for my absence. My wife went into premature labor last Saturday and I’ve been in the hospital with her for the last week. I hope to resume regular updates next week. In the meantime, please forgive my lack of writing.