Tantrums and Trenchcoats

You know that wonderfully euphoric feeling you get when everything in your life is going right and perfect and there's nothing that can take it away? Yeah, me neither.

I witnessed the funniest and most pathetic thing today. A fully grown, mature (sometimes), thirty year old woman throwing a tantrum. A thirty year old woman!!! Have you ever seen a seven year old throw a tantrum? They throw something, they stomp around the house making as much noise as possible without saying a word, and they look at you as if you are the stupidest and most inconvenient person they have ever seen in the universe. Yeah. Thirty year old woman. It took every fiber of my self-control not to laugh when she threw the remote then went stomping away with a "bite me" scowl on her face, looking for all the world like an infuriated seven year old trapped in a grown up body. I never knew such a short person could make so much noise stomping around like that.

Another funny thing today? Ok, so you remember that vanity publishing company that I sent my manuscript to? I got a package from them in the mail today. (Go figure, I was expecting an e-mail.) They said they would be pleased to publish my Work (with a capital letter) and they included a very nice summary of my book. I blushed a little. Want to know what the going rate is to get your book published with a vanity publishing company? $11,500. Yeah, my jaw dropped too. And that's for a soft cover and the smallest type font available! I don't make that much money in like 3 years (not kidding), an I'm currently the breadwinner while my husband is looking for a better job! I am trying to think of a very nice, eloquent, polite way to say, "Are you fricking kidding me?!?!?!" I'm not getting very far. So far I have "Dear Publisher,". Any suggestions?

Sooooo . . . I'm giving serious consideration to just finding a printing and binding company and doing it that way. Like how people do their family histories and sometimes kids in school do a school project and they print it up and they each get a real book of it? Yeah, that. I don't really care if I get it for real published, I really don't. The money would be fabulous, but I've never wanted to be famous. That would be so stressful and awkward. I just want my book. I want to hold my book, have it in my hands, printed and bound and real and looking like I just bought it from a bookstore. There you go, deep wild fantasy moment. And then I want to do the same with all the rest of my books! I want a whole shelf of my own books that I can read when I want to without having to do it on a computer. Because oftentimes I completely forget what I have written, and I can actually be quite funny and witty sometimes! I always get a little tingly and warm inside when I can read my own words and laugh at them. Ok, a lot tingly and warm.

Ooh, this is random, but guess what? I have a trenchcoat! You know like in the movies, the butt-kicking sexy chick has a sexy black trenchcoat that goes to her knees and just looks sexy? I have one! I got it on sale at Walmart! It's actually a little too small for me, so I can't button it all the way up and I can't fold my arms because the shoulders are too tight when I do that, but since I like it better unbuttoned anyway, I don't care! I feel dangerous when I wear it. I think sometime soon I'll have to put on one of my pairs of black boots and my trenchcoat and sunglasses and just feel all dangerous and cool and sexy for a minute. I'm weird, I know. I'll just sit here in my weirdness and be weird.

Ok, I think I'm done prattling on for now. Actually, I can think of lots more things to prattle on about, but I'm not sure my poor audience wants to listen. And I'm trying to go to bed at a decent hour (yes, before 2 in the morning is considered a decent hour for me). Last night we had to stay up late and finish washing our laundry. We were trying to get it all done so my sister-in-law could use the machine in the morning. At about 5:30 a.m. I decided that perhaps I should try to get some sleep before the sun rose and our daughter came bouncing into our room as cheery as a chipmunk on drugs. I did fall asleep, because the next thing I knew I was being rudely awoken with and elbow in my ribs, a knee on my bladder, and a very loud chorus of "Mote! Mote!" ringing in my ears. So while our bouncy daughter scrambled around on the bed and on my kidneys looking for the remote and insisted that we watch Mickey (or just about any kind of cartoon featuring a character that was friends with Mickey Mouse) I unfortunately woke up a little more and seriously considered murdering the dog. There could not have possibly been something outside that would inspire such loud, persistent, OBNOXIOUS barking! It wasn't even his frenzied barking at the mailman! It was this booming bark every other second like he was trying to perfect doggie Morse code! GAH! I very nearly got out of bed to order him to be silent using very strong language and possibly a threat to his treat supply. But at that point it was somewhere around 7 or 8 in the morning. I did not have the oomph. And I had a two year old kneeling on my ovaries. The dog should be very grateful.

Anyway, I'm really leaving now. It's 12:52 and I have to get up at 8:30 tomorrow to get ready for work. Have a lovely day! Or night. Or afternoon. Or whatever. Tomorrow I will aspire to be happier than a seagull with a french fry! Byez!

Synonyms and Publishers

Oh, my holy corn chips!!!

Ok, first of all I had almost this entire post typed up and I went looking for synonyms of the word afraid (you'll see why later) and my computer decided to throw a hissy fit and restart the internet. *Throwing vicious tantrum*

I hate computers sometimes. Right now is one of those times.

Alright, so back to what I was writing about before my computer spasmed *Growling*. As I may have mentioned before, I am an aspiring writer. I have actually completed 3 whole manuscripts and have plots and characters for at least 30 others. But only one of them is really done and proofread and all that, and I just finished it last month. At which point, my husband said I should try to get it published. I admit, I have flirted with the idea before, but I am realistic bordering on pessimistic when it comes to things I feel strongly about. The least I expect, the less of a chance I have at being disappointed. So do I think that I could actually, realistically get published? Not really. Is it one of my fantasies that I cling to anyway? Yes.

So I was fooling around on the internet one night and started looking for publishing companies, just to see what was available on google. I found one publishing company that would accept manuscripts for review at no cost. After a lot of gut-twisting inner debating with my subconscious, I finally submitted my manuscript (that I had to finish typing up). I did that three weeks ago and I'm still waiting for a response. They said 4-6 weeks, and I'm trying very hard to be patient. Incidentally, I'm failing.

In the meantime, I was doing more research and found out that they're a vanity publishing company. Basically, you pay them to publish your book. This is not a profitable kind of thing, and a lot of people do this basically for posterity, to leave their mark, no matter how small, on the world. However, there is no way on this good green earth that I can pony up thousands of dollars to have 14 copies sold. (Pessimist, I told ya.) I can't even pony up the money to go to the dentist, which I haven't done for about 4 years.

So tonight was doing some more research about the book publishing business, more specifically on the "how to" part. And I learned that to publish a book, you need a literary agent. Very very few people get published with a normal publishing company by just submitting their manuscript. You need somebody who knows the ropes, can pull the strings, and who knows people. A literary agent. So, after following a very helpful link on Wikipedia.org (I love that website) I found the AAR, the Association of Authors' Representatives, Inc. And I selected myself an agent to send my "query" to. A query is a short synopsis of the book, the word count, relevant publishing information, and the first 5 pages of the manuscript. I just sent the e-mail off (well, before my computer threw a fit) and if I were a nail biter I would be chewing on bloody stubs right now. It was bad enough sending it in to a company that I would have to pay for them to publish it, but sending it in to a person that could potentially make me into a real money-making, succesful author is a whole different realm of anxiety for me.

Follow me, if you will, to one of my deepest, dearest fantasies. We'll pass the one where I have my high school body back. (A size 12 is probably not what some of you may think of as ideal, but looking at my body now, with my pink zebra stretch marks and love handles you could lift a whale with, I would do something very devious to have my 10th grade body back. My sister's body is exactly like I used to be, minus the boobs, mine were bigger, and I am so jealous and wistful. I love my adorable daughter to death, but she destroyed my body. Someday she is going to come to me, 5 months pregnant and complaining about her stretch marks, and I am going to sit there with a wry smile on my face and say, "PAYBACK.")

Yes, past that fantasy. To the fantasy where I am published and become a real author. Not like J.K. Rowling or Clive Cussler or Danielle Steel. I just want a spot on the shelf at the library. I want a spot on the shelves of Barnes and Noble. When my name is googled, I want the result to say "Author". And money would be nice too, but honestly, just having that spot on the shelf and having the occasional person say, "Hey, aren't you that author?" would be enough.

I don't think it is too unreasonalble to be feeling absolutely terrified, horrified, anxious (see the whole synonym thing now?), nervous, and altogheter FREAKED OUT right now. If anyone in my pretend audience has never written before, you may not understand my feelings. When you write something, be it a novel, a poem, a series of essays, a part of your soul goes into it. Some essence of yourself that is vulnerable and beautiful and completely defenseless. Now imagine sending that bit of your soul to a stranger and saying, "What do you think?". I am petrified beyond belief that I'm going to get it back with a big red F circled on top. Absolutely terrified. And I will be on tenterhooks until I hear back from the stranger with the big red pen with my soul in her inbox.

I feel as if there is a very large and angry swarm of butterflies in my stomach. The brownie next to me is not helping at all. I abhor saying this, but chocolate can't fix everything.

So, pretend audience, I think that is it for tonight unless you have any objections. No? Anybody? All right, then. I am either going to write down the muse I thought up at work yesterday (I'll have to explain my muses later) or watch a movie. Decisions, decisions. Anyway, love to you all!!! Wish me luck, cross your fingers, and pray that I survive until I hear back!