The Big Nasty is finished. (“The Big Nasty” is the new nickname for my novel.) It’s finished, officially. No more work will be done to it for the time being. There is a beginning. There is a middle and there is an end. It has been rewritten, torn apart and put back together six different ways. It has been steamrolled. And it has been polished. And now it is ready for its debut.
But not for the public. Instead, for agents.
The Big Nasty is well-rested and ready to party.
I have called in all my favors. I have spoken to every friend and every teacher who has ever mentioned in passing, “when you’re finished a draft, let me know. I have the perfect agent for you.” And now, in some cases, these agents that at one time, years ago, were perfect for me, are no longer even agents.
By the end of the day today I will have sent six queries out, two of which have already responded and requested the full manuscript, which naturally and immediately has been sent on.
The Big Nasty likes to be liked.
This past weekend my wife roughed up The Big Nasty one last time, tightening the lines to the point of explosion. And now all of the tinkering and toying and whining and bullshit pain-in-the-ass outlining is finished.
The Big Nasty works out like a marine.
I have no idea how long this agent process will take. Days. Maybe weeks. Months. Maybe not at all. But it’s god-damn exciting.
The Big Nasty is alive, folks. I’ve taught it everything it knows. Now watch it go out there, rob some kid of his razor scooter and kick-push its way down the Avenue of the Americas.