Last month was Conference Mania, with BEA, SCBWI, and WIFYR back to back. I had more acronyms than…an acronym…book (leave me alone I haven’t had my coffee yet). I also passed in the final draft of my second book, which has now gone on to copy edits, which means apart from dotting the Is and re-crossing the double-barred Hs, CHERRY MONEY BABY is out of my hands.
And it’s a little like the beginning of the movie where the guy gets out of prison, and they hand over his belongings, basically whatever he had on him the night he got pinched. His pocket change. A pair of sunglasses and a watch, and a frayed old tuxedo smelling of jailhouse mothballs. And the guy stumbles out to the curb, and it’s Texas hot with haze coming up off the concrete, and all you can hear are cicadas and maybe a mouth harp. He’s standing there, has no clue how the world’s got on without him. And then, like a mirage, dust and a starburst of color up the road, then the rumble of a car engine, and it’s a big beautiful machine coming his way. Will it stop? And if so, who’s come to collect him? Who remembers him? And where will he go now? Will he set his life straight? Has he been rehabilitated? Or is he already planning his next caper?
I think it’s time to write another book.