A few days ago I began an online conversation with my literary agent (thanks for all you do, Cynthia!) and informed her that I had written another book that she had not yet seen. I told her about a book proposal I wrote nearly ten years ago that is still stored inside one of my floppy disks (just gotta find it among the hundreds!) and as soon as I told her about that one, I thought of two others that are also growing mold on the hard drive of my 1995 Compaq . . . this computer that often belches fire through the monitor.
Bless her. Last night she wrote back informing me that, heck yes, she'd love to see this ten-year-old book about Ancient and Medieval Legends. Perhaps she can find a home for it. And then she wrote, "I'm amazed that you are still finding books that you've written. You are a writing machine."
Me? A writing machine? Aw, shucks! If I only had a heart.
I'm not sure about being machine washable . . . I rarely wash my clothes. Things have to get awfully ripe around the house for me to notice. But I do approach writing much the same way an accountant might work with tax returns or a taxidermist might look at a dozen dead gophers. I'm mathematical in my approach, and I consider each day an opportunity to stuff another page full of words . . . hopefully good words. If I'm writing humor, I aim for the funniest or wryest wit I can muster. If it's a historical essay, I aim to write my research well. If it's an article on, oh, say "Dealing with Difficult Parishioners and Where A Pastor Can Send 'Em" . . . well, I make sure there's a magazine out there who would appreciate my suggestion of Siberia or Kentucky.
Anyway, you get the picture. Mechanical.
My wife's been complaining about me for years, of course. She claims I'm mechanical in my romance, too. But I take exception to this. All she has to do is oil me.
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