I really want to have an agent already. And weirdly not so much because it’s the next step in my career, toward publication and so on. At this point it’s mostly just because then I wouldn’t have to do more agent research or write any more query letters and I could just write. (We will pass over the admin-related things associated with actually being published. This is my delusion. Hush.)
And, yes, I do realise the madness inherent in that perspective. I mean, there’s nothing making me do that stuff. Technically I could just stop trying. But that… would be… no.
I want one. Hell, I don’t just want an agent, I want a publisher and a pub date and… I don’t know, fans. No, you know what? They don’t even have to like the book. They can just argue with me about it. Or something.
God, my fantasies need work.
I blame the doctorate. I spent three years of my life working on something that odds on nobody will ever read. And I’m totally okay with that. I knew that would be the case going in and I’m fine with the thing just sitting on my shelf, and on the shelf in the university library and being able to pretentiously say, “It’s Doctor Mavrick, actually.”
But that was academic. When it comes to the fiction I just want everyone to read it and make friends with it and drop it in the bath and call it George and… okay, I’m going to be over here breathing now.
Or you know, drafting a new query letter.