If I want to be a writer, I have to write. I can’t sit on the internet browsing Tumblr and Facebook, robotically reblogging things that strike my fancy. I need my own space that can be taken seriously, something that says, hey, she really means business, because I do. I’m querying (hopefully the agents are okay that I’ve self-published because I hear that’s sort of a turn-off), and I’ve been writing, writing, writing after exhausting myself at Chipotle, my day job at the moment.
I’ve been flying through the Guide to Literary Agents all today, and I’ve learned a lot. Agents have to be as invested in my work as I am, which means I have to find The One.
And there I thought I only had to find one person who was The One.
But now, here I am. Blogging. I really am a starving artist.
A dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer.