
Over on another blog there was a conversation about books that are HTC (hard to categorize). A well-regarded agent lamented that perhaps she’s lost her edge because she finds herself turning down beautifully written books that are just too HTC. Books that are too hard to package, too hard to market, too hard to ultimately find a home for.

Books I’ve loved so far this year:

I had my mid-project review over the weekend. It was gently suggested that I might be on the wrong track, which I heard as, “You’ve left the track entirely and wandered away into the woods surrounding the track, naked and without a bag of breadcrumbs.” My brain is a serious paraphraser.

Our mid-project review packets were due today. I feel like a wrung-out washcloth, limp and damp, and I’m mentally exhausted. I’ve worked on nothing else for the past six days, literally. (I mean, I fed myself and worked out and did the life stuff that must be done to exist, but nothing else.) I’m empty.

Our mid-project reviews are coming up. My fellow Marks have really knocked it out of the park, creating heightened tensions and new depths of story in their work. I… have not. Now I have about a week to wrangle all the bits of writing I’ve done over the past two months into a smooth revision of the first half of my book. It’s been a difficult journey thus far, with several false starts and switchbacks, and umpteen pages of unusable material. I’m terrified.

I’ve pretty much missed application season this year. I used to be relentless. I haven’t submitted work to many literary magazines—a couple, maybe—but I’ve been pretty regular about churning out intricate applications for fellowships and residencies over the past several years.