I just read Cavedweller and Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, both excellent books that I missed when they were bestsellers. Why am I reading? Because I just sent in the ms of What's Best for Jane, and I am languishing in the desert, that barren, desperate place, waiting to hear from my editor.
The GCLS conference is this weekend in Phoenix, and I can't attend, for financial reasons. I really, really wanted to, because Miss McGhee is a finalist for an award. I shall make it a policy to always show up whenever anyone wants to give me an award, but my bank account just did not cooperate this time. If by some miracle, my book should win, I will post an acceptance speech of the highest order here.
While waiting for the editing process to begin on Jane, I have been thinking about the next project. A few people have suggested that I write a memoir, the story of my childhood, growing up in a large family in south Alabama. I have given it some thought, to the extent that a 150,000 word draft sits waiting to be dusted off and revamped. I think that the only way I could do this is to distance myself from it, to create a fictional version of myself, thus gaining leeway to make me so much more interesting than I am, and also insulating those friends and family who might not be pleased to find my cockeyed perceptions of them in print.
It would be like looking at a picture within a picture within a picture. Stretching the truth into an unrecognizable shape, creating a behemoth from a gnat. Lying through my teeth. I am beginning to like this idea.
