in the beginning there was a manuscript..

I don't want to roll back to the real beginning. Childhood experiences. They're horrific. I'll start with being riddled with anxiety, thinking of readying the manuscript for agent shopping. Would they laugh? And I don't mean because Frying Spam was funny. I imagined agents wondering who the ass is that thinks he's a writer. So I worked the manuscript over and over until I thought I could get "naked" and still keep my composure. I have a lovely line editor, so that helped a bit.

Still, fearing the inevitable onslaught of rejection slips, I put off researching for the right agency. And that's the thing. I had nothing to compare it to. I'd tried not to read too many memoirs. I didn't want to cop an auto-voice from another writer. But with what I know is on the shelves, humorous religious abuse themes didn't show up. Who would want to advocate for Frying Spam, even just read it? And nobody was there to prod me either. I had to muster on my own. It's lonely, folks.

I settled after twelve drafts. Fuck it. It would be thirteen chapters. Not for any unlucky number-voodoo reasons, please, I just thought it was enough. And I have a short attention span. I'd been pecking at it for four years on and off. Besides, there's probably plenty of readers that can't sit still for long either. So I figured I was ready to buy postage. Either way, publish or pass out, my life would change, at least my view of it. I could very well end up having a very depressing year, or worse, life. Compression or depression, I had to move on it. I was in the way of me. Around then, a copy of Poets and Writers landed on my writing table.

Next up.. First trip to the Post Office..
Stay Tuned..


  1. Hey, I think I know that line editor. I'm cheering for you on this wild adventure. -- S

  2. mandie.. making trips to the post office?