Another agent response in the mail, a rejection, this one says she's swamped with current clients. Dallas and I now match, at 3 to 8. For Dallas there's always another season; for me there's always more agents, if this round turns out to be all rejections.
It seems, however, that unpublished authors need a connection in order to move forward; a published author's recommendation, or to know an agent or someone connected to publishing. But this is Los Angeles, not New York. Publishers, authors, and agents are scarce by comparison. Is this agent-query exercise a waste of time for the unpublished, meaning me?
I think of a man who self-published, saying any "bits" offered by his agent never amounted to a full meal. Self publishing, however, brings the hurdle of distribution.
The days here are crisp, clear, and beautiful; not unlike Provence a few weeks ago. I love autumn, and Thanksgiving. All this helps offset the blackness I feel over my working environment, a recurring cancer that threatens to rule my life, even when I'm not there.
It's early morning here in Los Angeles. The sun is coming up and soon will turn the hill I look out at, the hill with my little Tuscany, into a golden patch of encouragement. In fact, that hill isn't unlike those in Provence. Thank you, Provence, for staying in my heart and mind. The balance you bring is most welcome.