On the morrow...

...I have two things to do. I will enjoy one of them very much. The other...probably not so much.

First, I am going to leave my son at home with my mum (brave woman, keeping an eye on the evil genius known as Bird) while I go meet some girlfriends and sort through photographs. You see, I am hoping that I can pare them down to a few from the almost 500 I have now, print them, and sell the dadblasted things at a gallery or something. It would be very nice to get something that I did out there and making a few shekels for me. If you're at all creative and without income, you'll understand.

I do so many things...I made up a new term to explain: crafter's ADD...and they all end up costing me money.

I wouldn't mind, if I actually earned some of what I spend, but I don't. The only thing that doesn't cost me a cent is my music, but that's not making me anything either...and it won't unless some major label suddenly decides it hasn't pissed anyone off enough lately and wants to add a pagan band to its stable.

I would like to remain a pure soul, revelling in my art for its own sake, but sadly, I can't. Kids cost money. Hoo, boy, do they cost money. And they keep demanding meals and clothes that fit and shoes and stuff. There's no money to be made in crochet or quilting...those are labors of love, truly. Beadwork, much the same. I'd try to make a buck at writing, but...we'll get to that in a minute. So it's photographs, if I can manage it. My gals are sweet enough to give me a hand, and I did spend a big chunk of yesterday sorting through the files and eliminating a few...now I'm down to 225 potential prints. I also named them.

That's what I'm looking forward to, tomorrow...having some time as a grown-up with other grown-ups, working on a creative endeavor. If I'm not a complete time hog, we'll also get into polymer clay creativity, too...and one of these ladies is insanely talented with that stuff, so it's always fun to get into.

The second thing I have to do...ugh. I really need to feel rejected try and publish something. The only story that is remotely finished and ready to be pimped marketed is a little children's thing I wrote when Bird was but a wee babe. I wrote it for him...he likes when I tell him made-up stories, and this one I managed to remember and write down the next day. I won't go into details, but it's moderately cute and possibly interesting to someone other than myself and my demon spawn delightful little angel boy. So I thought maybe I could get a toe into the door of the publishing world by sending this story out there and seeing what happens. This means I have to either fling manuscripts blindly at publishers and hope I hit something, or get an agent. I am opting for door number two, because I fear it less. Yeah, that's a terrific reason to make a choice, isn't it?

I need to get cracking on a query letter. That's a kind of begging letter wherein one pleads their saleability to a complete stranger and asks said stranger to "Please, please, consent to do the pimping marketing of my manuscript; isn't it a terrific story and don't you just know you'll make a million on it???" Yeah, right. I couldn't sell gold to Scrooge McDuck on my best day and I'm supposed to write a letter that will convince someone they want to read my twiddly little kid's story? I feel ill. It doesn't help that there are many, many terrific resources on the web about finding, capturing, and taming an agent...but not for children's stuff. And there are many, many talented authors trying to get into this soon-to-be-outdated racket before books are dinosaurs and storytellers are medicated into submission. Also, I don't write kid's things for the most part. I do, however, finish them, which cannot be said for my more grown-up dreck. Why would I do this to myself? Because I am a masochist? I have no idea. Perhaps I'm more deluded than my previous shrink (Hi, Dr. Stuart!) and I realized. I don't know. But I said I was going to try, and that means sucking up my fear and offering myself up to strangers...and being rejected by them, by many of them, until I run out of options or someone thinks they can deal with my crazy special charming and talented self.

There are not enough words to convey the horror I feel about this activity...but let me try: I would rather drink bleach laced with razor blades with a strychnine chaser while simultaneously burning my hair and inflicting thousands of paper cuts on my person while being showered from the neck down with a combination of lemon juice and hydraulic acid. Or spend ten minutes with my one remaining grandmother, Isabelle. OK, maybe not that. Really, that's not hyperbolic enough, but I'm tired and off my "A" game. I. Have. To. Write. Query. Letters! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

If I'm lucky, I'll get hit by a beer wagon on the way home and be spared the need by the resulting lawsuit which will set me up for life. That's worth paralyzing pain and suffering, isn't it?