I've posted before that wine and writing do NOT go together for me. Wine is one of those things that seems like it should increase my creativity by knocking aside those pesky logical thought patterns and inserting hilarity (or at least randomnimity that could be worked into creativity). Today, however, has proved once again that wine and writing should be kept separate.
I had the best of starts today. As a guest, I attended a local Romance Writers of America meeting to listen to an agent talk and give critiques. For a newbie author just starting to test the waters with my story, meeting an agent and hearing an agent give advice was the equivalent for many people of meeting a famous celebrity and being invited to their personal house party. I don't know what I was expecting--perhaps a person with molecular structure uniquely attuned to good writing, who could walk through a room and feel the current of the air change around writers with talent and writers who were ready to have their work sold. In reality, the agent was not quite so sci-fi, super-human, but she was evolutionarily advanced: She was a Reader.
Yes, today I realized the fabulous fact that in my starstruck wonder had heretofore escaped my worldview: all agents are readers. As in, they love to read. As in, they probably feel supremely delighted and blessed to have a job that allows them to read for a living (and sell stories, of course, but first they have to read them). All the agent websites with their submission guidelines spelled out in varying degrees of foreboding language made me miss this key point before. After all, agents are inundated with queries and submissions. They have their own slush piles that they desperately do not want to allow to multiply unchecked, so they throw up all these scary Violators of Submission Guidelines Will Be Shot signs all over their websites to weed out those unsure of their bulletproof armor (er, stories). But in their hearts, they're readers, and they love a good story. (If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might be sensing a trend: like how the obvious has to bonk me over the head a few times before it really sinks in.)
I really enjoyed listening to the agent talk. I enjoyed the critiques. I was motivated to come home and jump into editing my story. I was ready to pound out another book tonight. There are people out there who live to read, and I was ready to keep them well fed for the rest of their lives.
But first I wanted to go see Suzanne Goodwin in art show as I'd been planning to do for the last few weeks. Suzanne is my absolute favorite artist, and she's also a friend. The show was outside, and Suzanne had spent the day working on a gorgeous new piece that she'll hopefully have a picture of on her website soon. It is completely not my fault that the gallery hosting the event was also serving free wine. It is only partially my fault that I went back for seconds.
In twenty minutes, I was robbed of my motivation. Languidity set into my limbs and my thoughts. My stomach reminded me that food would help things out, and after dinner, some dessert would be just the thing. Now, I'm stuffed and more tired than motivated. Sigh. Tomorrow I will write again.
...And hopefully I won't regret posting while still a little tipsy.