No reply, as yet, from the editor looking at my work but then I only wrote the (chasing) email last night. This is probably just as well since I cannot imagine that a quick reply could indicate any interest in reading samples of a couple of novels. Not that this makes it good news either - all I can say is that no news is no news and the waiting game continues.
This afternoon, N and I took one of her kites to the park. We had intended to blow bubbles but, unknown to me, the bubbles had been moved to the cupboard under the kitchen sink which was, of course, a place I did not look. Kites, however, were in abundance, all still sealed in their original packaging. I don't know why there are so many here. I chose the most colourful, of course. We assembled it and tried it on a short leash in the car park, until it became clear that it probably wouldn't rain and that the thing might fly, given half a chance.
It didn't really get half a chance but it did get a few trips up and down the hill in the park. It mostly bumped along the grass, occasionally flying alongside us (sadly, rarely above us) before tediously spiralling into the ground.
We mostly attracted the interest of a noisy and very stupid dog which stood about twenty feet down the hill from us, barking incessantly and glaring. I was reminded of an ex-colleague who claimed to have accidentally killed a dog by kicking it as it savaged his ankles. This creature never came close enough for ankle biting so I never had to discover whether I could bring myself to kick a small dog, no matter how annoying it turned out to be. I suspect I would have shooed it away inefficiently and probably tutted and moved away myself instead, while holding N out of reach.
N is my daughter. She is two years old and, without a doubt, the best and most fun little girl ever. I speak objectively, of course. I look after her while awaiting the book deal. This is slightly the wrong way around since, if I get a book deal, I'll be able to continue doing this and, if I don't, the wonderful world of wage slavery awaits. It's tricky though since, while I would know the exact moment at which I signed a book deal (at which point I would continue doing what I'm doing), the points at which I haven't yet signed a book deal could stretch off over the next many decades (please, no), in which case when do I give up the lack of day job? When the money looks like it might run out could be a sensible answer. But it's dull, oh so dull.
Whether this blog is similarly dull is not for me to say. But I am keeping the momentum going by managing to post a second piece on my second day. It might appear that, as an unpublished author, I'm not exactly trying very hard - either to write a lengthy blog that considers the weighty matters of the day or to flog the already completed books sitting expectantly in the hard drive of this computer. This is very true but, looking after a two-year old does not leave a huge amount of spare time in the day, especially now that the afternoon nap is no longer required (by her - I could certainly do with one). Next month she starts nursery, at which point my mornings become available for bothering literary agents and, possibly, starting the third book. Neither of my books were written in mornings - maybe they would have been better if they had been.
I long to have some comments so that I can find out what happens if I click 'Moderate Comments'. In the lack of any requests to the contrary, I might tell the Korg or the kitchen bin story tomorrow, unless something dramatic happens.
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