In November of 2016 I finished writing my first novel. Hooray! But where was the parade? Not on my street. I expected to exit the computer room to an explosion of fireworks. At the very least, I hoped for a wrap party with balloons, streamers and lots of liquor. There was nothing. Nada. My husband may have given me a hug. I don't remember. It is possible, that my cats looked at me with a whisker twitch of pride and amazement. But it was probably just a sparkly reflection over my shoulder that caught their eyes. Or hunger pains.
Not only did I finish my novel, but now, I've finished my first revision. As soon as I enter the story line, time flies like a Delorean on plutonium. I become immersed in it. I hope some day soon, readers will feel the same way. Revision is fun when an editor isn't breathing down your neck with a laundry list of shame. Gulp. That could change.
Soon, I'll be entering a new phase. The phase where people actually read it. I'm not sure when or where that will be. The internet? A self published e-book? A hard cover that wins the Pulitzer prize? Here's where you may find my book in the future...
a) Richard Branson's speedboat. President Obama is reading it, again, while kite surfing.
b) First class. Hillary Clinton forgets her copy in the seat pocket of an airplane. Shesh! What is she going to do while waiting to give her speech at the latest Women Who Whiskey gathering? Meanwhile, the first class flight attendant snags it, taking it with him to Hong Kong on a long layover. Then he passes it on to all his buddies. Score!
c) The airport kiosk of Barnes and Noble. The world awaits!
d) President Trump's golden toilet.
e) The garbage can at Starbucks. Bummer.
Here's a snippet of story line snagged from my query letter...
Just like stubborn weeds, retired farmer Oren Walton finds
himself plagued with nagging hallucinations. The visions start out benign
enough. Small. Harmless. But like a prolific summer thistle, they grow,
sprouting new leaves with every passing day. If you ask Oren, the things he
sees are real. Like his gal. The one he sneaks out to the R.V. to see at night.
She’s the best damn thing that has happened to him since his wife Amelie. He
has Parkinson’s. That’s true enough. But hallucinations? He doesn’t believe it.
Until the visions escalate, darkening the skies like a murder of crows, threatening
not only him but the safety of his loved ones.
Loved ones like his wayward daughter Sedona. She doesn’t know
what to do. She quit her job in true country music fashion to move home and
help out her struggling father. But now what? She wasn’t cut out to witness her
father’s slow decent into madness. And then there’s his lady friend. The real
one. Her old school teacher Lavinia Swift. The one that spews profanities like,
“Education elevates you!” Ugh. If it
wasn’t for her mother’s mysterious journal entries, leading her closer and
closer to the truth, and Jeb, lanky, glacial eyed Jeb, she’d be high tailing it
back to Minneapolis. But then again, Jeb is the new Methodist minister. And
there’s no way she’s going to church. Ugh.
Wish me luck!
