I finished my novel (second rewrite) a week ago. I sent it off to an agent. His page says he typically gets back to writers within a week. Who's counting? Talking to a friend who originally turned me on to the site where I found this agent, I discover that she thinks I shouldn't have wasted my time on him, as he doesn't specialize in science fiction. Her thought is that he wouldn't have contacts with the publishers I want (probably true). So, with her help, I looked up the agents of a couple of my favorite authors, James Corey (really two people), and John Scalzi, who has two agents. When If I get a rejection from my first attempt, I'll start on them. If none of them like me, I'll return to the publishing company (DAW) who rejected my first draft with good reason. Beyond that, I don't know. If I get sick of the process, I always have Amazon. It's a good book, though. I really would rather have someone promote it other than me.
In the meantime, I don't know what to do with myself. I have the beginning glimmers of the sequel bouncing around in the basement of my brain, but I don't feel like going down there. It will happen when it's ready (or when my publisher demands it). I am working painting houses and fucking sick of it. I turn 62 at the end of August. Social Security here I come. Then, after we kick the festering pile of Orangutan poop out of the White House, I am heading to Ciudad Oaxaca, where I will write, take photos, learn Zapotec, and whatever the hell I want.
Come visit. I'm going to get a two bedroom apartment.
PS, also suffering through the loooong recovery from a torn meniscus.
