When I get slow with posts, you can bet it’s because I’m writing something else.

Since I decided to give it a try, I’ve completed two novels and am well into a third. Suddenly, I just knew the second one had some major issues. Stinky, pissy, snarly issues. So I rewrote it. Not “edited it.” Rewrote it.

This was thankless and hard. It made me realize how much I missed the first time through. I had believed it was good. But it sucked.

Does it suck this time, too? I actually think it is pretty good. But apparently I can’t tell. I’ve spent a lifetime making quick decisions and living with them; I couldn’t be self-employed without that skill. But, I’m telling you, this book stuff. My heart flutters, I whimper, I dither, the type on my delete key has worn away.

The market for fiction is impossible just now. Successful writers are getting rejections. New writers, tough agents and spooky publishers are all confused. Readership is down; epublishing is up. I’d prefer a more receptive marketplace, but this is the one I have.

So I’m back to looking for an agent. One interested in a psychological thriller with murder and torture and stuff. But nothing paranormal.

There is no vampire.

There is no werewolf.

Do you suppose that means there is no hope?

Wish me luck on the back nine. I’ll keep you posted.