So here is some good news. For me, at least. About three - or is it four? - agents have asked to look at my manuscript because my query interested them. I'm not getting my hopes up yet, of course. So many agents have expressed interest initially before realising that my writing style was not 'the best fit' for them.
The waiting bit is the part I can't stand. We're expected to give the agents about 4-6 weeks for them to read our manscripts, see. And only a week has passed since I last sent out my manuscript. *FINGERS CROSSED*
On another note, Bedful of Moonlight is taking shape! That's good news, because I'd been on a hiatus from it (about three weeks maybe?) and writing short stories in the meantime. What can I say. The well runs dry sometimes, and I could think of nothing to get my story moving along. But those swimming sessions are strangely therapeutic. When you get lost in your thoughts, you hardly even notice you're swimming. It's funny.
I'm not revealing anything yet, but let's just say that Caleb's family becomes a lot more complicated than before.
And I've decided. After Bedful of Moonlight, I'm going to write one last story that takes place in the estate of Wroughton. I'll call it the Wroughton Series, where three unrelated stories (with the exception of a few cameos) take place there. And then, depending on if I have anymore stories I can tell that takes place in there, I'll probably move on to other stuff. Another story, another setting.
Also, I'm taking part in the Golden Point Award 2009, organised by SPH and NAC. It costs 16 bucks to take part in it. I just hope it'll be worth my money, and time, and effort, and ink, and paper.
Updates sound so boring. I prefer internal monologues, or verbal vomit (as I prefer to call it), don't you?
Oh by the way, I've picked out my books to exchange on the 25th. I just riffed through my cartons and cartons of old books yesterday (dust bunnies everywhere, jeez) and unearthed all those books from so many years ago that I even forgot I had. Tales from Fairyland? Mr Meddle's Mischief? Snowball the Pony? Seven O'Clock Tales? Those are classic, man. Enid Blyton was such a huge part of my childhood. You're high if you think I'm giving them away.
I am, however, going to give away some Picoult and some Charmed. (Okay, wait, on second thoughts, I don't think I'll give them away after all - come on, you don't expect me to give them all away, even though I don't read them now! They symbolise a milestone in my life.) And Can You Keep A Secret, and The Au Pairs, and The Bergdorf Blondes (the dumbest book I have ever read - no offence, Plum Sykes), and The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole or something like that (you know, the diaries of some British teenage boy who keeps measuring his dick and obsesses about his girlfriend's tits? Dude, talk about boring. I so do not want to know what the hell a guy thinks about his body and everybody else's. But to be fair, this was the only book in the series I've actually ever read, so he mightn't have been so obsessive anymore), and some Sabrina the Teenage Witch (okay, STOP laughing) and The OC (I know I was in love with it when I was fifteen or so, but oh well, guess it was just another phase).
Swimming now, sweethearts. TTYL :) But before I leave, here's some hotness for the day.
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