In April 2014, I decided to write a story.
I did. And, it was long. 220K words. It took me fifty-seven days. The day after I wrote the last chapter, I left on a three-week vacation to the West Coast with my husband, Rob, and our four children.
The day after we returned, I started another story. That one, too, took fifty-seven days to write.
Since then, there have been four others: all but one taking that magical seven-days; the outlier took fifty-two days.
When novel #6 was done, Rob asked when, exactly, would I begin an agent search. Truth be told, the notion to “put out there” my work, coupled with the predicted slew of rejections, did not hold a lot of appeal.
But a few weeks ago, I decided it had to be done. I queried six agents. In a couple of weeks, I’ll query six more. A half dozen at a time seems reasonable.
I’m in no hurry.
Because I love the writing.
I will begin novel #7 in the next few days. Then, it’ll be head down for fifty-seven fantastic days.