First day back to writing after roughly two weeks off, which followed two–endless, oh so endless–weeks of ten hour plus days at work. The technical needs of a school are highly cyclical, and swing from the doldrums of summer, where crickets keep me upright, to the first months of a new term, where by the time I fix the seven problems waiting for my arrival on campus, three more emergencies beckon, one possibly tragic.

In the past few weeks, I discovered I don’t mind submitting my work, a task never pursued seriously or with any specific method until now. Very consciously I elected to get the product as right as I could manage, before investing any energy into selling it. Now that the “package” is together, talking it up is less difficult than I expected. And I don’t mind the waiting part, knowing full well I’ll never hear back on some queries, and other responses might take months–or years–more. There’s a reason for a query burst, a break to allow responses to filter back, and then a reload.

Far, far more difficult was not writing at all, a movement that rests on my actions alone. The longer I avoid it, the bigger pain I become. When I start taking nonsense personally, and the beer in the house seems to disappear, that’s a good indicator a “pause” stretched into the danger zone.

A place I prefer not to visit.

Tomorrow I receive suggestions from a woman who used to work for a top shelf literary agent.

Here’s a snippet regarding her impressions:

“…I think you have the right attitude about all of this. The bottom line is that you need your readers to enjoy and participate in your work. So I’m going to go back over my markups, to hopefully make them as clear as possible, before I give them to ( –redacted by Sam– ) to give to you. Please don’t hesitate to write me back with questions after you’ve looked things over…”

Now interestingly, her tastes are serious literary fiction. Of which The Last Track is not. Needless to say, I’m very, very grateful she’s making time to read and comment on a piece–even in part–that burrows wide of her personal preferences.

See, right there, that’s one of them there signs. Like M. Night style.

Must keep listening to the voices.

Reviewed my 2007 writing resolutions again tonight and marked progress, particularly regarding the second item: pitch The Last Track to 40 agents. Without dropping exact numbers, and including the second round fired off today, hitting that number–if necessary–will not be a problem. At this point, it makes sense to allow time for replies, ease off the queries, and increase the writing output.

Did some background work for the guerrilla marketing campaign, or item three. Since the plan involves a number of people besides myself, I’m in a holding pattern at the moment. Rest assured, the ball is rolling in a sound direction.

No progress on the first item–entering 20 writing contests with cash prizes–other than identifying the contests. Of the four tasks, here I made the least strides. Initially I set the goal aside temporarily with the proviso of readying The Confession for entry in the First Chapters competition, but after a few more weeks into the project, I dropped that idea. In its present form The Confession is too personal for consumption; I may like the notion well enough, but the ideas are too raw, a steep percolation is necessary. Hopefully with some more effort it can be more accessible. And when I say accessible, I’m not talking about selling the piece, I mean being comfortable taking it out of a trunk and showing someone.

While forsaking First Chapters, I am honoring step four: finish a draft of The Confession before tackling another large manuscript. While this course may suggest self-indulgence, I must finish anyway, because allowing the process to happen as it wants will lead me to another place. That point I take on faith. But there’s another reason to continue, even if the manuscript never sees print.

I believe some stories need to be written, want for a writer to step through the associated emotions, feel them and capture their effects on a page, yet not share the actual product.

Projects with such a charter–and I truly hope I have very few of these in me–are not made for a reader; they exist solely for the writer.