I'm in the Querying Trenches Again

Can you believe it's been twelve years since my first contract? A lot's changed since then. People have shorter attention spans, AI is replacing human authors, and readership is down overall. Yet in the midst of this, idiots like me keep writing. Why?

I DON'T KNOW.

I think some of us just can't NOT write, if that makes sense. This need to create stories, to dream up worlds we can control and people we can push around like bullies--it's some kind of weird sickness. I'm fairly certain that before I die "writer" will have its own diagnosis code in the CDC's International Classification of Diseases.

To make matters worse, I need to query literary agents again. This is the writerly equivalent of speed dating with a booger in your nostril and a piece of spinach glued to your teeth. If you know someone with an ego problem, send them off to query literary agents. They'll come back with a new attitude and an expression that says they just saw Bigfoot.

I don't know if THE UNMAKING OF CALISTA MCTAVISH will ever make it onto your bookshelves or into your Kindles. I hope it does. I think it's a good book. My beta readers agree. But marketability reigns supreme, and even an outstanding book might be passed up if it isn't trendy. So let's all pray the timing is good and the words are better.

Uncertainty prevails, which means I need to find some measure of control. Where? Yes, you guessed it: in my next book, now at 10,000 words. Send an Ambulance. I'm infected with Writer.