At 5:30 in the morning, I hear the faint sound of the rototiller in the fields next to the farmhouse. The truck farmers work long hours now. I pick up my camera and roll out of bed.
I consider starting the day then as well, but I’ve been writing on and off all day and part of the night and I’m feeling like it would be a real effort to get anything out of me right now.
But I think about this project as I lay there half resting, half dozing. I should do what wannabe authors do: I should pitch this book project to some agents. That’s how writers proceed, no?
Some while back, someone handed me the name of her agent. You’ll love her. Write to her. Oh sure, a reputable agent is going to want to hear from someone who is only now getting serious about book writing. And whose first language isn’t English. And who blogs.
Does anyone know of any other agents out there? I’d like to start collecting rejection letters. It seems to be part of the process.
Eventually we push the day forward. Ed goes off for his weekly design meetings at Tormach, I return to writing. Isis is feeling terribly neglected, what with Ed gone and me inside. I go out and have a serious conversation with him about disturbing a budding author. He looks at me with wise eyes. You? Budding? – he seems to say.
He ambles off toward the shed. Cooler down there. I return to the farmhouse and my book notes.