Before I write this post, let me make one thing damn clear: I excel at being nice to the cows.
The neighbor who owns them can frequently be heard yelling at them to come in, in the evening. One of them gets mouthy with her (mmmmmo-OOOOO!), and we’ve heard her yell “SHUT THE HELL UP!” while herding the cows into the barn for the evening.
These cows are not mine. I do not herd them into her barn or anywhere. I do not shovel their shit. I don’t pay for their vet visits, and I’m not tied to milking them twice a day.
Thus, I can be very nice to the cows. Pretty cows. Such nice faces. Moooooo. And what an attractive calf. A real show-calf, that one. Yes, the neighbors’ cows and I get on famously.
But I’m not a dairy farmer. I am a novelist. Not only that, I’m a novelist who has had a terrible time figuring out what she wants out of this writing thing.
And just as I had almost figured out what I wanted, someone has thrown a spanner in the works. A lovely, shiny spanner, and I am taking that spanner and running with it. But the fact remains that I didn’t really know what I wanted before I woke up this morning, and by sometime tomorrow I should come up with a cogent list of what I do want.
I would love to be represented and traditionally published.
I would not love to sign a contract, do the work of editing, and sell no more books than I already am on my own.
I would love to have the validation of being signed to a Big 5.
I would not love to have any of my novels buried in perpetuity, out of my reach, gone. As if I never wrote them.
And therein lies the rub. But I will figure it out. I always do. Life has been kind to me so far; if it’s never so kind to me again as it was in my first quarter-century, I’ll have done all right. I might as well try, you know? Failure puts me in no worse a place than I already am.
Ugh. I detest these vague blog posts. So sorry to have inflicted one on you. Maybe I should step outside to moo at the cows, instead.