You know the worst thing about agent hunting?
The way you lose faith in what, six months ago, was a book as good as any you've ever been paid for.
I am so sick of the first ten pages of The Astral Palace I could scream and it's impossible to imagine anyone else wanting to represent me based on them, either. I should start trolling with the lesbian western instead (only Damon's not reading it very fast and I begin to think I'm having pacing problems, which is a good sign - it means I should be able to go back and revise it properly instead of merely basking in Len's voice, soon).
I can't sell stuff if I don't keep it in the mail, but I can't find people to mail to when I'm hating the work, either.
This is the kind of thing that makes teen-agers eat entire gallons of ice cream and declare their lives over. Thank goodness I'm old enough to tell the difference between perception and objective reality. But I still can't match the project to a prospective taker like this.
Maybe I should give up and work on the emotion recycling story instead.
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