It's not like this is an uneventful week in Anglicanland. As if, in the light of GAFCON, the bishops beginning to gather in Canterbury for the decennial Lambeth Conference were not already operating in a sufficiently drama-charged environment, the shadows are lengthened by what happened earlier this week in the Church of England's General Synod. It isn't so much what they did that adds fuel to the flame--that much was a foregone conclusion--it was how they did it. The devil, as we know, is in the details.
But I digress. I'm not going to get into all that right now, mostly because, if I have an ounce of marginal influence in things Episcopal, I have not the wisp of any influence across the sea. So I shall keep my own counsel until Lambeth gets going.
Back to my personal plug.
For the last eight years, I've been working on a novel. Writing one, that is, not reading one. That it took me that long is no testimony to its length--it's a relatively modest 100,000 words or so--but simply to the fact that it was very much a "spare time" project, maybe like restoring a classic car in one's garage. Or building a robot, perhaps.
Anyway, it's done. It's been proof-read. It's been gone over by an independent editor to whom I paid actual money, and I have made a good-faith effort to incorporate her suggestions in revising my work. The book is finished. I'm ready to (please don't shoot me for saying this) "take it to the next level."
Which is to say, I need an agent. One who will find me a publisher. It's not best-seller material, and nobody's going to be able to retire off of this deal, but it's a story that deserves to see the light of day, and the writing is occasionally surprisingly good. At least that's how it strikes me when I look at a passage I haven't seen in five years and think to myself, "Damn! Did I write this? It's actually not bad." And I bet there are some people who would pay money to read it.
So if you know an agent, or better yet, if you are an agent, you know where to find me. I will be more than happy to zap you two or three chapters so you can get a taste.
My high school English teachers always said "Write about something you know." So I wrote about an Episcopal priest who's about to turn fifty, because that was me when I started writing. But the story is assuredly not autobiographical (something which I have to constantly reassure my wife of, since the narrative begins at the main character's wife's funeral.) But, of course, I do exploit my knowledge of what the daily life of a member of the clergy is like in order to give veracity to my story.
If I could bottle my aspirations as a novelist, shake them together and pour them out into a glass, we would have a hybrid that represents a cross between an American Susan Howatch and an Anglican Andrew Greeley. I would not presume to put myself in the same league with those accomplished authors, but I like to think I'm worthy of at least swimming in their wake. It's about real stuff that happens to real people. If it were a movie, it woud be R-rated--not more than that but not less--in spots.
The working title is from St Paul to the Corinthians: "This Slight Momentary Affliction."
OK people, work your networks.