It's been a few months since my brain hemorrhage and I've finally stopped feeling like all of my blood vessels are made of glass.
More or less. I mean, I still imagine them all as a cluster of dried and crusty rubber bands from time to time, but, for the most part, my constant anxiety over springing another leak in my head has subsided. There's still a subtle underlying buzz of apprehension, but isn't there always?
Despite everything, or more likely because of it, I have been devoting much of what can best be described as my new lease on life toward finishing up a major rewrite of my latest novel. Soon I will begin the humiliating challenge of shopping it around (again) to a slew of major and minor players in, what Terry Southern liked to call, "the quality lit game."
What does that mean. exactly? Well, for starters, it means another writer's conference. Except, unlike last year, where I took part in the literary speed-dating construct known as Pitch Slam — cramming as many three minute agent pitches into an hour-long session as was humanly possible— this time (at a different conference) I am going to be sitting with just one agent who will have read the first 15 pages of my book ahead of time and (hopefully) provide me with some useful feedback. How much useful feedback can be squeezed into a fifteen minute meeting? We'll see.. I'm already second guessing the whole idea. But, from what I hear, that's part of the process, too.
In related news: