This morning, I glance at information about successful writers, their agents, their sales figures, their stories. Do they plot, do they not, how they can afford repairs on their home now that the days of financial disaster and drudge work are behind them, etc.
None of it feels relevant. If agents are enamored with the notion of nasty women as the current Big Thing, none of my female characters are nasty enough for anything beyond a ho-hum. So, congrats Gillian Flynn, and all the best to you, Paula Hawkins, I’m not about to join the race of being dubbed the next anybody whatsoever.
I know. It’s about sales figures. It’s about getting a whole lot of people excited. Sorry, I have to laugh here. Whatever gets done over here gets done on less than shoe strings and requires so much energy, it’s something like powering a tiny electrical station with a bicycle.
But that’s all right? Yes. I’ve been gone from the outer edges of the world of glitz for so long now, I read about success stories the way mothers read fairy tales to a child before lights out. No one, I’m sure, will launch an acquisition war on anything I’ve written, am writing, or will write at a later time.
Things to do. Plus, breathers. Moments half-way up a steep hill, for instance, standing under an umbrella and inching away from a woman in slippers and half-way through her makeup, reeling off the list of her profound commitment to every humanitarian cause. All men should be brothers, but she won’t make it to the Friday night event for a local family in need. Life is all too much for her, these days, she needs to go out and have fun. Eh. In soggy slippers and holding up an eyeliner stick like a wand? Why not.
I’m unglamorous. My characters are unglamorous. We’re not about to make headlines but that’s all right. We’re too busy getting on with living to give headlines anything but a cursory look anyway.