Last year, I wrote a book. It took about seven months. I edited it for another seven and here I am. I've got a third draft of a manuscript that needs more than a drawer-- more like a coffin. It's ample and I'm not entirely sure what to do with it going forward. I've sent out about 20 query letters. Not enough. I've heard back from one agent who wanted to read more, but not the whole thing. I've received five rejections. Everyone else remains intractably quiet.
The book is about dead kids. Who doesn't love them? Before you get in a huff, they're teenagers-- human enough that compassion doesn't have to take the shape of repulsion. The kids are in charge of the stage set; without them, we'd live among bleak utility. The context wouldn't be inspiring. We'd wonder why anyone ever bothered to write poetry or take pictures. Not that people don't wonder that already. To them, I say, be grateful something is there to catch you up when your head gets too full up of self. To them, I'd also say, good luck in love.
This December, I promised myself to try to write a novel in a month. Sure, I was supposed to do it in November, but I was busy with some stories and a fair bit of hysteria over my future. This month, I'm calm. And I'm rushing headlong into a loosely outlined story to follow up on our heroic dead kids. I'm promising myself it won't reach the paunchy proportions of the first. After all, I only have a month.
So here's the thing. As with all phases of delightful hysteria, its passage has left me feeling a little rambunctious; I'd like a little upheaval in the story. So while the first book concentrates on the young female protagonist, this one is following her partner, a guy who knows just a bit more but doesn't realize what he actually knows. I guess my question is whether this is a ridiculous mistake? I like his voice and I wanted to hear it. So fuck it, I suppose. It's my story to tell. And if I want to tell the second part through him, then I guess I get to do exactly that.
You've been most helpful.
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