Almost six months to the day after I shipped off my 80,000 word rough memoir manuscript to the lively engaging woman, an agent in the Bay area whom I'd met at the Flathead Writer's Conference, I received a reply. Comfortable in the fact that my draft would not be a project she would be taking on, after perusing the company's published works on their web site, I nonetheless felt gratified to at least hear back from her. Not to mention the fact that a real live agent, the first I'd ever met, actually requested the whole thing and then read it. I presume she read it, but hey, you never know. I do know she read my first 15 pages at least, which we discussed during our 15 minute one on one at the conference.
She encouraged me however, which was refreshing. She inquired for an update on my status with the main man in my storyline, (I'm still in contact with him) and if I'd been keeping up my usual shenanigans (I have) detailed in my book. I shipped off a brief response, and she suggested I find a structural editor, both a good and bad sign. She thought the work was worth saving and completing, and it badly needs major work. Not news of course. I have already started to cut with savage swipes to reduce and remove the peripheral crap I'd been holding on to.
It's not unlike a mass of film footage, a rough pile of loosely connected shit which must be skillfully woven into an actual, flowing, coherent, entertaining and well paced movie, or in my case, a quick, fun read. I shall power on. I did relay to her that without the blessing of my main man, chances are the work will remain under wraps. And shipping the 80,000 words off for him to read seems unlikely, at best.
