Back in February, I attended my first writers’ conference. While there, I learned a great many things and met several other novice, struggling, starving authors. One in particular. (For this blog, we shall call her “Bridget” since she’s both British and fabulous.) Bridget and I have exchanged query letters, chapters and many-a woeful email about the loves and cruelties of writing.
Presently, we have the first 100 pages of each other’s manuscripts. (Bridget is a YA writer and her book is amazing, so creative, a cross between “Percy Jackson” and “The Hunger Games,” with time travel, a hot archeologist intern and the heroine’s hand-to-hand combat lesson taught by a nineteen-year-old Achilles. Not bad.)
Yesterday, Bridget emailed, updating me on her progress, ending her message with this:
“I am half way through yours and…I have to say, I love your book so much…and your sense of humor…it makes me want to move in with you! So you might want to start your publishing career being cagey about where you live or I foresee stalker fan-girls hanging around your house.”
Every budding author’s dream: The potential of being stalked. Seriously, is a better “review” even possible?