I filed my taxes today. I get $13 back from the feds. I owe the state $48. I need to borrow a kid next year.

I’m about to research another literary agency. It was suggested that I get a copy of the Guide to Literary Agents. I haven’t because I’m a moron. And Barnes & Noble isn’t on my way to work or anything else I do. Sure, both of VCU’s campuses have a B&N-owned bookstore but this is probably in the real deal. Damn suburbs taking all the things that should be in the city. Well, I guess Fountain Books would have it but it’s in that grey area that too close to justify driving and too far to walk so I never go. I always feel guilty about it because it’s an indie bookstore but Shockoe Slip is awkward. I can’t remember what local restaurant closed recently but there was a entry in the Richmond satire blog about how everyone always meant to go because it looked awesome but never did so it closed due to lack of business. I was one of the people who was kept talking about going there. I hope Fountain doesn’t go that way.

I’m also thinking about some other changes too that I can’t mention here yet. I sometimes look forward to the day I can be open about a lot of things here but that requires no longer being a journalist. Oh man, I think I’d have a ranting entry about politics to start. Nah, I wouldn’t be that salacious. I’d just let in on some things that I’ve wanted to put here but never did because I want this blog that no one reads to be transparent as possible without sacrificing my career. I’ve definitely toed the line a few times but that is because it is my belief that stupidity is non partisan.

Anyway, what I will say is that I feel as if I’m getting close to a juncture and I’m a bit hamstrung until my quest for getting my novel published ends with publication or my 20 years of writing fiction are universally panned and I use my remaining vacation days to drink myself into oblivion.

Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do if no one wants my book. I picked journalism to make ends meet while I work on my novels. I didn’t intend on writing articles because I wanted free time to work on my books. I already have the preliminary ideas for my next book in my head. Nothing has been set in stone yet because Brown River Blues is still hanging over my head because I had next to no time to focus on it like I should have. There is no excuse for this taking four years.

I’m having a huge bout of being in denial of my ability. My 10-year reunion coming up this year doesn’t help either. I feel like a failure for some reason. I mean, I’m not a published novelist yet. I’m the managing editor of a 8,000-circulation newspaper that publishes three times a week. I’m renting a house with three other people and a large dog. I’m single. Four of my teeth are only mine because I’m paying for them and I can take them out of my face at will. I HAVE GREY HAIRS. This isn’t exactly what I expected at soon-to-be 28.

At the same time, I have done a lot. I’m managing editor of a 8,000-circulation newspaper. I have a two-year-old Nissan Altima named Nicole Cobb. I’m on the executive board of a national fraternity. I’ve won writing awards. In April, I’m going to be on a panel for the Society of Professional Journalists, which I need to get around to joining (long story). My wallet says &#8220Bad Mother Fucker.&#8221

I guess I need that last bit of validation. I’ve been writing since 1993 when I decided to write stories about the Time Machine Detective Agency. That fell apart when I started researching time travel and I realized that time travel was possible but not probable. I created the character of Lorenzo Santiago Williamston in 1998 and he has been my mainstay to this point. I feel that I would do a disservice to him if, after all these years, not a single thing about him comes to the printed page beyond the short story &#8220Reincarnation of a Lovebird,&#8221 which my fiction professor HATED. Hated. In a way, I want Lorenzo to enter the national arena to be a middle finger to that guy.

In a way, I feel as if I’m on the right track. Almost all of my favorite authors are drunken, tortured souls who weren’t celebrated right away. I almost want to self publish. I know I can easily clear 1000 copies sold through word of mouth alone. Don’t think I haven’t calculated that. I have for years. If I get a real deal, I know I’d make a very strong selling in Hampton Roads and Richmond at least. Because I’m awesome.

I feel inadequate and I have delusions of grandeur. I’m sure some shrink is having a field day right now.

Anyway, I feel that third time’s a charm. I’m going to look for another agent with a fine-toothed comb by Friday and fire one more off then wait till the end of March before I start anew.

I feel that I lot of amazing things are going to happen before June 1. This is going to be the year.

Get pumped.

That was both for you and me.

I’ve just sent Query Letter #2. The place seems really well liked and I recognized the names of some of their authors (including one I abhor).

There is a glaring typo in its submission requirements and I was actually nice enough not to point it out in my query letter. I’ll wait for them accepting me.

This agency requested the first two chapters, which I like because I still have no confidence in my query letter whatsoever. I now also hate that a couple things get set up but nothing major happens until the end of the third chapter. I mean, it’s engaging and, obviously, something is going to happen but now I’m picking my novel apart. At least I haven’t started rewriting it or something. It’s been four years.

I mean,

Scott and Sydney Smith are finally settled. Scott is technically his wife’s employee. They just moved into their new home in the countryside surrounding Imperial City. Their first child is on the way. Despite all of this, Scott feels unfulfilled. It takes the sharp-tongued Williams Store Gang, at the country store down the road from his home and the inconvenience of a river rerouting itself to launch him into his dream career and perhaps to his demise.
Lorenzo Williamston is a young but nearly burnt-out journalist. He hopes, along with his neighbor and coworker Nicole Cobb to catch the wave of a developing regional story that launches them away from an inept managing editor. As Lorenzo considers walking away from his job without a safety net, this mantra “If I don’t care, who will?” keeps him from shirking his duties and keeps him digging into what he feels has to be a pattern of corruption in the sheriff’s office.
Their lives intersect in the backdrop of Southwestern Virginia in 2007 when a series of arrests of real-life law enforcement agents in connection to a methamphetamine ring. Lorenzo and Nicole deal with the uncertainty of journalism careers and they all grapple with a desire to make a difference or at least some sort of mark in the world. The tone ranges from the witty barbs the Gang exchanges to the tense uncertainty of what a cornered cop will do when it is determined that he is a criminal.

I’ve been writing since I was in elementary school. I know what I’m doing. I will not freak out. Brown River Blues will be published. It will.

I’ll wait a few days and do some homework before sending Query Letter #3. After that, I’ll see what sticks and try the process again. And wait.