Leaving home is a flurry of packing, organization and rushing around. Returning is an implosion involving laundry, utter fatigue and disorientation. I left California and my independent, separate self and became Mom, the do-er of laundry and provider of food and referee of fights. My husband claimed the children were on perfect behavior while I was gone but today they have all nitpicked and annoyed one another and me.
It doesn’t help that I started back to work and put in a full eight hours today.
My experience at the conference was beyond my expectations. First of all, I hung out with the cool kids, Annie, Sarah, Andy, Brad, and some others who don’t have blogs. I rubbed elbows with novelists and editors and agents. And I walked among the Redwoods and laughed until my face hurt. (You can find photos on my Facebook account–just look up my name and request to be a Friend if you aren’t already.)
I took a class and found out that I am not ready for an agent (my novel is unfinished); despite that, one of the reviewers of my first twenty pages insisted that I speak with an agent (“I love your writing,” she said) and that is how I ended up agreeing to finish the novel in six months so I can send it to her. More immediately, she wants the first three chapters and a synopsis as soon as possible.
I find all that super weird and unexpected. Is there a more emphatic way to express that? Because it is SUPER WEIRD and UNEXPECTED.
I am not being falsely modest when I say that I sent in the first twenty pages because I needed to know if I was delusional. I half-hoped someone objective would tell me to stop writing fiction and to learn to weave baskets instead. That was not what I was told.
Instead, I have to write 70,000 words by Thanksgiving. Or sooner.
I am going to do that while working forty hours a week and trying to keep my kids clothed, fed and free of rickets and scurvy.
I guess I’m up for the challenge.
And a maid.