Turning 98,000 Words Into One...Maybe Two.

So one of the things Kimberley and I discussed yesterday was the need to find a new title for my novel. I'm completely fine with that and thought it would be a fun little adventure. There's just one problem...coming up with a new title is proving to be a greater challenge than writing the novel itself. I have a few ideas I'm tossing around, but nothing is really jumping out at me yet.

When I first started writing the novel formerly known as Zhukov I had no clue what to call it. I think when I was drafting up an outiline, not even really committed to the idea yet, I saved it as something like Seattle Underground Thingum. Later it was renamed Zhukov, after the protagonist.

Every once in a while I'd stop and tell myself I needed to come up with a better title. Part of me really liked calling it Zhukov though! I mean it sounds strong and gritty. I guess that can be said for a lot of Russian names. Say it a few times. No, no. Say it out loud. There. See what I mean? But alas, I have always known it was a working title and I am so glad that my agent agrees! Onward to a new title!

EXCITING NEWS

It's official! As of today, I am represented by Kimberley Cameron of the Kimberley Cameron & Associates Literary Agency!

OBJECTIVE: Keep From Having Anxiety Attack

I am an incredibly superstitious person; that's no secret. Between you and me though, dear blogosphere, it wasn't until today I realized just how innate and positively CONSUMING said superstitions are! I have news. Wonderful, exciting and amazing news I want to tell the world about. I want to sing it from the rooftops, fighting to keep my nerves in control and stomach contents down all the while... BUT I CAN'T EVEN POST A CHEERY FACEBOOK UPDATE BECAUSE I'M SOOO HORRIBLY AFRAID THAT I'M GOING TO JINX MYSELF IF I UTTER A WORD JUST YET!

3 p.m. tomorrow. I will make it until 3 p.m. tomorrow.

Deep breath. Swallow nerves. Reapply deodorant and carry on, grinning giddily....Pray to the literary gods for me, blogosphere.

Oh Goodness..

So there I am just watching the latest episode of The Walking Dead when my phone lights up. The little icon says I've got a voicemail. I groan (partially because of Norman Reedus and partially because of my phone's lack of coverage in my own apartment) and tell myself I'll check it later since it's probably just mum anyways. The episode ends. I call my voicemail. At first it sounds like this old friend I've lost contact with, especially when the first thing she says "Well that's an interesting voicemessage." I'm combing the archives of my mind for that one friend's name when all of a sudden I realize... it's an agent.

AN AGENT.

Guys. An agent called me. An agent called me and heard my ridiculous voicemail greeting. I like to think it sounds something like "MandaMandaIN'DA'MORNIN" like the "Troy and Abed in the morning" jingle. It probably doesn't.

Oh, and by 'an agent' I don't just mean 'an agent.' I'm talking about one of my top five dream agents, Kimberly Cameron. It took almost ten minutes for me to calm down enough to call her back. I kicked my boyfriend out and distracted the polar bears with bones, but I was still so addled that I tripped over my own name when she answered...I can't even feel embarrassed about my voicemail because of how awesome I feel about that call.

One Of These Days I'll Get To Write For Fun Again!

When I signed up for two English courses and one course on International Affairs (which has an essay due every other week) I thought "No big deal. I love writing and I'm good at it." It is now week five, maybe six, and I am so utterly 'blurrrrrrghugggghghhhh' it isn't even funny. Fortunately, I did manage to get my revisions all sent out before the metaphorical poo hit the metaphorical fan. Unfortunately, I have spent every moment since then bent over a keyboard writing papers and praying to the literary gods for some kind of miracle. Something like an Ewok in a Delorean....

This is what I need to happen right now.

On a plane at 5am...

And I've been up for 28 hours... A perfect time to NOT edit.

Finishing Touches

At what point is a revised manuscript ready to be sent out? For me it's the point shortly after three and a half months of sleepless nights spent hunched over a keyboard. The same three and a half months I've also spent working a full-time job with terrible hours, and suffering through the stress joys which go along with going back to school. In those three and a half months I've completely reworked Zhukov.

Secret-sharing time folks. When I first agreed to do a revision, I was terrified. My mind went absolutely nuts. The request came on the tail end of other responses to material I'd sent out around the same time. While quite a few were positive, most of the responses I'd gotten up until that moment were rejections. As a writer, I am prepared for and ready to accept rejection. As a twenty-two-year-old female, that acception comes with it's own pint of Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream.

I read the email at least half a dozen times start to finish before I believed it. I'd heard of revisions, but what did they entail? I scoured the internets for answers and reached out to all of the wonderful people I'd met at writing conferences. What I found, was one giddy congratulation after another with little accompanying words of wisdom and reassurance which felt more like a pat on the head than anything helpful.

Please, don't get me wrong! Of course I was thrilled! Who wouldn't squeal and bounce around the living room after finding a request for a revision and resubmit in their inbox? Heck, I do that for partials! ((Maybe, if you ask nicely, I'll share my 'omg what do you mean you want the full manuscript' song and dance)). When you stop bouncing, though, it all falls into prospective. Someone believes in you and your work enough to give you another chance. Sometimes, as in my situation, they are even go so far as to specifically tell you what worked, what didn't, and what they want to see happen instead.

You're probably thinking "Psh, that sounds awesome! Why were you terrified?"

Because, grasshopper, with twenty plus pages of editorial notes in your hands and an 82,000-word manuscript on your desktop THE PRESSURE IS ON. Something you've poured your soul into must be picked apart, reexamined, and put back together in a way which both you and the person you're working with can agree on.

You've been given a second chance. In a world of *insert generic rejection*'s, you've been given a second chance. Keep calm. Take your time. Don't blow it.

Three and a half months might seem like a long time to spend on a revision, but it was the time I needed. At first I thought I could turn it around in a month. I probably could have, but it wouldn't have been everything that the editor who requested the revision and I believed it could be. My manuscript is a thousand times stronger than it was before and I am finally ready to send it back with my head held high and the confidence that the odds of me throwing up from nervousness as my cursor lingers over the 'send' button are only one in five.

As a writer, I tell myself to be patient. As a twenty-two-year-old female, I tell myself that checking my inbox every five minutes is totally not excessive.