Exhausting

by

I have gone through the entire Poets and Writers agent base and sent out a query to each and every agent that was accepting memoir submissions.

I am tired thinking about it.

Actually, there are still agents on the data base I could query, but it would be in bad taste, and not professional to query two agents in the same agency for the work.

That would pretty much cancel out my request to do that.

I started going to the next stack of agents that I can find.  I was given a data base that I have actually used before, and had lost the contacts to.

Opening up the agent base made me feel like crawling under the covers and skipping the whole damn thing.

Here is the database.

Basically everyone who is anyone in the literary world.

Of course, I still have to do research when using the date base.  I still have to go and look and see if the agent is first accepting queries, whether they accept e-mail queries, whether or not I have already queried them, which there are a few I have, what kind of material they are looking for.

I do not want to send a children’s book agent a memoir about smoking crack and being homeless.

Although that would be one darkly humourous children’s book, now wouldn’t it?

My god.

There’s an idea.

Children’s books.

I have had the thought before.

Writing children’s books, but I actually have no idea how to go about it.

Fuck, I have the barest of ideas how to go about what I am doing now.  I do not feel quite as blind as I did when I first started the process, but I am still in the hallway and I have no idea where the light switch is.

Just fumbling around here folks, don’t pay no attention to me.

Actually, please pay some attention.

Please.

I feel like I put all my eggs in this basket, this writing basket, and this going to Paris basket.

Occasionally I wonder, what the fuck am I doing, then I just keep whistling in the dark and trying to stay warm.  It is cold here.  Snowed again today, although nothing heavy.  Had there been more moisture in the air it would have been a good snowfall, it is definitely cold enough for it to stick to the streets.

I just keep showing up here, at my desk/kitchen table and writing my morning pages and writing my blog.

I have been finding it challenging to do more than that.

There, I said it, my dirty secret is out.

I have been having a challenging time doing more.

Once I get a query out I feel fizzled.

I know I want to be producing more work, but I feel like I am doing the best I can right now with just getting to the blog and the morning pages and the queries.

Then I think, what if this is all for naught?

Then I think so what?

What if it is?

At least I am trying.

If the writing thing does not work out, which it might not, let’s be honest, it may not.

Something else will.

I will write anyway.

I cannot see ever letting my blog go, I really feel connected to it and the forum and the way my fingers fly over the keyboard.  My day does not feel complete without writing the blog.  So too, the morning pages.  If I am having a challenging time doing more, than that is ok.

I can be easy on myself, three and a half months into the Paris experiment, I am making progress.  I am.  I also will acknowledge that I am doing other writing.  Other kinds of work, which is more important, ultimately, than this.

I cannot do the writing without doing the other work.

So, I wrote some letters today and some e-mails and took some steps toward amending my behaviours.  Not as many to write as there were in the past and nothing direct to do, which is nice, and I don’t owe any money to anyone.

It is freeing to have them out-of-the-way.

So, there, brain, I did do writing today that was beyond the scope of my blog and morning pages, blow me you little bastard.

I also cleaned, the room-mate is back tomorrow, and I re-arranged the living space so that we would have more communal space.  I tossed a lot of extraneous crap that other tenants have left and cleaned and re-arranged the closet that now has a lot of the unnecessary furniture that the apartment has an abundance of.  I did laundry too.

I tried to go to the pool for a swim this afternoon, but it was closed again.

I think there must be some sort of school holiday coming up.

I also know that I have writing coming my way.

The blog for my friend and the manuscripts that my room-mate picked up for me from San Francisco.  I will be able to go and work on those.  There really is no end to the writing.  I have to move out from this place of fear and just muddle through some more.

Things change.

I am changing.

Love is happening.

And it may be cold right now and I may not be getting the response I want, but things are in the works, I know it.  I am not about to throw in the towel yet, not yet, no.  I still have things to do here in Paris.

I still have words to write.

Even when I think I have exhausted my brain, I can see that there is still more to come and more that will be revealed.  I am blessed, especially when I get the fuck out of my own way.

Here, in Paris.

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