"Writing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo", said Don Marquis, whoever he was.
A bit like sending your novel to an agent then. I've queried a few agents now and so far I've had a request for a 'partial' and a request for a 'full'. The 'full' at the end of October, the 'partial' about three weeks ago.
I've heard nothing back from either of them – nada, nowt, rien. I imagine them floating in a leisurely way towards the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The 'full' is a pink petal, the 'partial' is yellow.
Meanwhile I've submitted several short stories to different short story competitions. None of the winners are due to be announced until March. Although the odds are against my stories winning or being placed, I can't try to sell them elsewhere until I know for sure.
It's a period of hiatus, a weird interval of suspended animation. The only solution is to get stuck into something new. But right now I'm going to get stuck into Joshua Ferris' "Then We Came to the End" instead.
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