Writing is a lonely task. Long hours hunched over a keyboard
debating whether I should use an ellipses . . . or maybe an em
dash—
Screw it (I’ll use a parenthesis).
For newer authors like myself, this can be an agonizing
process. For famous authors? Not so much. They can break whatever grammar rules
they want, because . . . well, they’re famous. And besides,
they have an editor.
Where am I going with this? I guess I’m trying to say it’s
good to be a famous author on the bestseller list, but it’s also nice to have
your efforts acknowledged by your peers.
Recently I met an author who is a member of a small prestigious
writing group that meets weekly from September through May. In existence for over sixty years, group members
have won numerous awards—the Kurt Vonnegut Fiction Prize, James Jones First
Novel Fellowship, William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition
and on and on. She mentioned that the
group had a couple of openings and would be accepting manuscripts for
evaluation. If you’re writing had merit, they might offer you a chance to join
this prestigious group—moderated weekly by a well-known author, I might add.
That was back in June. Of course I immediately jumped on it.
Last week I emailed the President of the group and asked if I could submit my
novel. She asked about my writing experience; I told her it consisted of
writing safety programs, policies and talks, along with a wildly popular Parody
Book of the OJ Simpson saga back in the nineties. She didn’t sound too
optimistic. Their members all had extensive writing experience, but there was
no strict rule requiring it. They wouldn’t read the entire novel, but I could
submit the first twenty pages and she would forward it to the manuscript
committee. I thanked her and looked forward with anticipation to my “Dear John”
letter.
Well lo and behold I heard back from her a few days later
and was told that they were interested in my writing. She extended an invitation
to attend their group, and see it in action.
Needless to say, I’m pretty stoked. Almost to the point of
popping the cork on that bottle of Absinthe. But maybe I should wait until my book
sales go through the roof or I get an agent and publisher. Then I will go the whole nine yards (shouldn’t
that be ten?) and get thoroughly and appropriately soused; sitting back in my
leather pub chair, looking resplendent in my new tweed jacket, holding my briar
smoking pipe.
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