The manuscript (typescript? what do you call it if it exists digitally? I think still a manuscript, hand entered, not typescript until it’s printed out) is away, fermenting or maybe seeding itself over again like a Plathian mushroom. It’s away with agents as well. I think what the writing needs is a good, strong dose of rejection. I think that will do it wonders as much as a glug of whiskey and honey helps a sore throat. Not that it’s getting much rejection so far. One very, unexpectedly, kind and nice and supportive ‘no’, and one blessedly quick plaster-rip ‘no’. And apart from that a winter silence – like a fog on a playing field. Like the fog on the playing field that I can see from my window.
The distance is already working: I am starting to see another way through he book. I feel as thought I can grapple with its problems, which I can now see wriggling maggot-like from its pores. The last edit was so much about structure and the hang of the weave. The next edit will be about interiority and about what it is tat I’d like to say.
Although – in a faux pas perhaps – I’ve already sent it out to my absolute favourite agents upon whom I have literary crushes. Oups.
It’ll be fine. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.