I swear, ever since my birthday I've had odd little reminders that it's time for me to seriously pursue my intended career writing fiction. There's the aforementioned receipt of an Irish-American encyclopedia that includes three pieces I wrote. Then there were other reminders that popped up about an editor I've worked with in the past and a profile subject who contacted me about her upcoming book signing.
The writer, who I'll interview this weekend, writes historical fiction set during the American Revolution. I've interviewed her before and she's been a wonderful resource for marketing materials that I might use as a template for my own novels. More importantly, she loves the era she writes about and there's nothing better than interviewing people who really has a passion for what they do.
Then I ended up sitting on the train next to a lawyer who's written a novel and is working on his second and is also shopping a screenplay that he wrote with his brother. He and I chatted a bit about finding agents [he has one that he found via a client], our mutual love of writing and our particular ways of writing -- he compiles entire folders, like case briefs, of characters, for example -- as his client [who looked guilty to me] listened inattentively.
But my point is that I feel like there's been an element of divine intervention involved in the scant days since my birthday: a reminder that the window of opportunity for my becoming a published novelist of not just one but several books is starting to close. Intuitively, I know that it doesn't happen without my putting the time in. I've written the book. People have read it, enjoyed it, and suggested ways to make it better. I've made lots of edits to improve it. It's almost ready. But I need to start shopping it around. Soon.
I'm reminded of that joke about the guy who's drowning and several boats come by and offer help, but the guy keeps saying: "No, God will save me." I think I've gotten the message.
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