The Decision

Several days ago I made a decision. I'm not sure if it is a good one, but whenever I try to consider it, my mind wanders away. He is a sneaky fellow. You know the phrase, he has a mind of his own. Well, my mind is his own person and seldom seeks my advice. I on the other hand, consult him at every turn. Most of the time I think he is French, with all the rude gestures and all.

When I was a senior in high school in the sophisticated city of art in southwestern Wyoming (I must tell you that I take my life in my hands by mentioning the word art and Wyoming in the same sentence.) our counselor forced, I mean, asked us to take an aptitude test. We answered a few hundred questions and the answers were to point us towards a career designed to fit our interests.

Mr. Hammond, our school counselor, was drunk on the day he worked my results, or so I surmised because the tests revealed I should pursue a career in literature or art. Mr. Hammond drank one hundred and five cups of coffee each day. I have no doubt he was lacing a few of them with Southern Turkey bourbon.

As all high school students do, I simply ignored such erroneous information and became an accountant. My wife Hun (now all of you realize this is not her real name, but I've neglected to ask Hun for her permission to use her in my blog. Being the thoughtful husband I am, I wanted her to avoid the nasty legal battle, so I've developed an appropriate reference to her presence in my stories) determined early in our marriage that she must somehow bring sophistication and class to the hill billy she married. I've asked her to stop such reckless behavior as I enjoy her company.

She forced, I mean, introduced my to such things as ballet, opera, symphonies, and the theatre. You notice I used the 're' ending to show my burgeoning sophistication. I was coerced, I mean, learned to love the artistic facet of our lives. She showed me that my high school aptitude test wasn't the result of a drunken, underpaid, coffee guzzling, schizophrenic, but the a revelation of my true self.

Now that I have been pointed--by a double barrel shotgun--I mean with gentle persuasion toward my true vocation, I have decided to become an author. I undertook the task with the enthusiasm of an elementary janitor, I mean the passion of a misunderstood muse. The first book flew by with the speed of a BMW on the autobahn. I was elated when I gazed at all 396 pages.

The advise to every first time author is to do the best you can, and then let it sit for a few weeks. After this period, it is time to delve into your book and edit it. I followed this advice and was surprised to see that my precious work of art had been sabotaged by a sadistic computer gremlin that had taken my beautiful words and turned them into the ravings of a homicidal lunatic.

Not to be discouraged, I stabbed at each intrusion of senility and brought my book out of the dreary pile of mediocrity into the light of sublime literature. Upon further advice, I researched the publishing industry to begin the submission process. I discovered the infamous query letter and its trappings. (I know that little computer gremlin is responsible for the devilry that is the query letter.) I learned of the synopsis. (Condensing four hundred pages into five hundred words.) (I used to have a full head of hair.) And finally, the searching out of and submission to the gatekeeper, the evil and demonic Agent.

I submitted and submitted only to find out that all of the agents have asked me if my writing is the work of a deranged homicidal lunatic.

Now many of you may think the topic of my blog to day is the decision to become an author, but you'd be wrong. I have nearly completed my sixth major edit of my book and have decided that it is my last. However, this is not the decision I am referencing. My decision or more precisely conclusion is that no matter how many times I edit, the writing is always going to appear as the musings of a raving, homicidal lunatic, and that's just fine with me.