It's conference time, but you're ill prepared. Other writers will hunt down galleycat agents and
editors faster than a snark with the "flavour of will of the wisp." With your bunion, you fear you'll muddle through the speed pitching session slower than a three-legged terrapin. You call for reinforcement. Your mother wears Army boots and marches you with her squadron of promenading poodles. You train for hours, racing toward cutouts of editors holding prosciutto and contracts until the tastes of ham and victory are
It's time for small-talk drills. Your mom likens one of your manuscripts to an obscure allusion and pauses for your reaction. Do you smile or apologize? You think back to your current media calisthenics. You turn the click wheel on the Ipod in your brain. You've heard the allusion, but where? The Bat Segundo show! You laugh with hearty appreciation and quote another
line from the same episode.
Mom says, "Impressive!" She gives new orders: "Drop everything and give me ten ... books."
You only have nine ready for submission. You must revise your tenth book and mail it to her with a SASE before she loses patience. You dig deep, then deeper, and somehow, you do it.
You are ready for the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd. Or, since you're going to Sci-Fi-Con, the roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd.
Squadron of promenading poodles!!
Scoring to come