The scary thing about my levels of procrastination is that Beloved is worse. I've procrastinated doing my daily duties by writing the starting paragraphs of a book that I'm not due to start until 2018. I love the concept and it's so shiny. I had the perfect starter sentence and I could not resist setting a scene.
Of course, since the Mou editor is slower than frozen molasses, I started editing in my old friend, TextWrangler.
Everything old is new again.
I've been procrastinating at offering Kung Fu Zombies to another agent, and that's turned out to be a good thing. Beloved found a nice organisation that looks at your work and comes out with a short list of agents that might just like that nonse.
Caveat: it co$t$ US$360 to do it. At this stage of dissapointment, anything is better than feeling like this:
[Shown, Daffy Duck repeatedly swinging into a tree]
Especially with the month-and-a-half anticipation before the splat.
So I've gone from having 30 potential agents who I have found and could like my stuff, to paying a large sum of cashola for a short list of peeps who have better odds of liking my nonse.
Eventually, I'll find a permanent agent. That sort of thing takes multiple goes. And since I waver across the genres like a drunken weasel ball, it might take even longer. Seriously, I have steampunk, sci fi, true fantasy, modern horror, time travel, and a possible fairy-tale in my writing queue. And I've written one zombie-post-apocalypse, one sci-fi magic-v-tech adventure, and I'm in the middle of a steampunk thing with werewolf lesbians.
I might end up having an agent stable. This one gets all my Amalgam Universe stuff. That one gets all the fantasy nonse. And I might have three or four goes before selling the statistical outliers like OUATAS and A Town Named One Horse.
And I'm pretty sure I will have three or four goes before selling KFZ - and my own attempts don't count.
Meanwhile, I have my extant writing, the Instant, and a small pile of bedding to get clean.
Yoiks and away.