My old friend John Michel has offered to help me
find a new literary agent, and I'm about to begin writing a
screenplay called "Misguided Angel" that I've wanted to write
for years. Plus, I'm already thinking about the second screenplay
I'll write after that, and the next mainstream novel, and the
next less mainstream novel too. So I'm anything but down for the
final count.
Have I learned anything in all these years? Tons. For one thing,
my first two agents weren't so unfit after all - each did the
best job she could in trying to sell the novel, and in the end
even my third, highly esteemed agent met with the same
resistance that the previous two encountered. Second, the
publishing business is more a mystery to me than ever. That this
book has not found a home has somehow turned in my heart from a
troubling fact of life, to something of a testament to optimism,
a proud eccentricity, a character-building battle scar of sorts.
I suppose that's just how we fragile beings adapt to unrealized
expectations, dashed hopes. Still, having just completed my new
novel, I'm all juiced up and feeling groovy, raring to give it
another go - after all, it's all anyone who decides to try to
make a living telling stories can do...try, try again.
Will "Undo" ever find its way between the sheets of pulpy paper
and glossy covers? Will it ever find its way onto the big
screen, or, if I had my choice, the little screen? And, perhaps
most important of all, does this novel really matter to anyone
besides me? The first two questions I have no way of knowing the
outcomes of - both are in Fate's all-knowing hands and only time
will tell.
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