I am on the Acela headed south to New York City. (Whenever I say “New York City,” I think of that old salsa ad.) So you, my friends (or whoever you are), will be subject to my random thoughts of the moment.
—I sent in my marketing materials to my agent, but haven’t gotten feedback on it yet. I think that those marketing materials were the hardest thing I’ve had to write—definitely harder than the novel itself; possibly harder than the query. And I feel like a jerk calling my own writing “powerful” and “engaging.” I mean, it is “powerful” and “engaging,” I’d just rather others say it for me.
—Shoes. I hate shoes. I never know what shoes go with what. Which makes it especially annoying that by the front door of our house lives a shoe pile that makes the annual shoe sale at Nordtrom look contained:
There are eight feet in this family! Why are there so many shoes? My daughter alone could shoe a small nation with the ones she hordes in her closet. Seriously. She does not part with shoes. No matter how small they get.
—I missed National Short Story Month. Seriously. Apparently May was National Short Story Month and I just blinked and let it slip by. Which is a shame, because short stories are so digestible. What’s June? I mean other than National It’s My Birthday Month So What Are You Getting Me? Only 23 shopping days left, people! One Story, which is a journal I love and highly recommend, published a list of the top 10 short stories. I think my goal for the next 12 months is to read every story on their top 10 and their big list.
—V. S. Naipaul, what up? I mean, dude, I stood by you through that whole Paul Theroux feud. I mean, yes, you sounded like an ass. But who knows? Theroux has proven in his writing that he’s not always the easiest man to get along with. But women writers suck? All of them? Look, I’ve actually read your books. And let me tell you, there are plenty of folks who say they’ve read your books, but I’ve actually sat down and read, from beginning to end, three of your books (technically, three and a half. I couldn’t get through Half a Life: A Novel). I was a loyal fan. But not anymore. We’re done. Jack ass.
—I have no idea where I am. I see highway and bridges. Oh, and water! So I am officially somewhere between Massachusetts and New York (sorry Rhode Island and Connecticut that I can’t tell you apart).
—Does the train really need to be air conditioned? I won’t even turn on the air condition in my own home, because although we’ve hit 88 degrees, it’s not summer yet. Wasteful train.
—Oh, I’m in New London! Which would be helpful if I had any idea where New London was. Gotcha, Connecticut. I can tell by the Foxwoods signs. I may not know my towns, but I do know my casinos.
Okay, signing off now, because I did promise myself I’d take this train ride to do more revising. Or sleeping. Or revising in my sleep. Something like that. There might be more from NYC. There’s bound to be lots of tweets. Something about New York just makes me Twitter happy. Fuggedaboutit.