writing conferences and rejection

First off, I have to say that I got a very polite, generic form rejection back within 24 hours of sending off my query letter (a month ago, I know. Leave me alone). Should I have posted? Probably. But it was so utterly, politely impersonal that there wasn't even enough angst to go along with it, so I didn't. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I wasn't devastated (okay, I wasn't actually devastated) but it's not like I didn't expect it. I didn't want it, and I had vivid fantasies of six-figure deals being FedExed at 7:00 in the morning, but I expected it.

So I have officially submitted and been rejected. My journey down a new path has begun. However, my journey is, so far, not unlike a game of Candyland and I am on one of those squares where you have to draw a certain color before you can move again. I have not yet drawn the right color, and I have not submitted anything else. Yet. But wait, I am not completely pathetic. Yet. (Though I am the only reason I haven't submitted again. It's not like the polite form rejection came back with a PostIt that said, "Please don't send this again. Ever. To anyone." It's just me.)

To prove my lack of pathetic-ness, I have been attending a writing conference this week at BYU. It's an all day, week long afair, and I am loving it. I spend the morning with thirteen other ladies and our mentor/guide/teacher, Claudia Mills (whose math-inlcuded chapter book I bought in the hope that it will inspire Duncan in both math and reading). Claudia is a) delightful and 2) wonderful. She has taught us (well, at least me) a lot and she is a completely nice person to boot. Though apparently when you get fifteen (fourteen, not counting her) grown adult women in the same room together they will sound like fifteen (fourteen) kindergartners, though with more sophisticated chatter (and I say that only because I hope it's true). The afternoons are spent listening to agents and editors (real live ones that you can stalk) and honest-to-goodness actual authors who get paid and everything (also available for stalking). I have learned tons there also, and should probably go through all of my notes at some point and post them. Wouldn't that be productive of me . . .

We interrupt this post to bring you the charming news that my wonderful husband (who brought me a rumball as compensation for my day) is going to co-author a cookbook. His name is going to be on the front of a book before mine, and ask me how much he writes. Okay, he does write, but mostly he cooks, and very well, but considering that this cookbook is about cooking for one and he can only cook for one if the one is like a single regiment of an army, it is all suspect and unfair.

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled post, whatever it was.

The ladies in my group/class are great writers and have wonderful ideas. On the one hand, I wish I could keep copies of what they've passed around for us to read, and on the other, I wish they'd just hurry up and get published. (Watch out Edward, Rye is going to take your crown as reigning supernatural heart-throb hunk.)

Speaking of the ladies' writing, I need to go read their writing for tomorrow and it's crazy late. My kids didn't get dinner until after 9:30 and didn't get to bed until after 10:30. My daughter (after I got home and not during the day when I was gone and she would have been oblivious) came in for dinner with 'mud' on her pants. Except it wasn't mud, it was poop-dog (as she used to call it when she was younger). So I took the pants off and threw them in dumpster. Yes, there was nothing else wrong with the pants, there were no holes and they still fit, and I went ahead and threw them in the trash because today is not the day I clean poop-dog out of my daughter's pants. All of this being proof positive that I am not a) supposed to work full-time, and 2) not supposed to have more than three kids. It could also mean that I'm not supposed to have the kids I've already got, but it's too late for them now, they're stuck with me.

So we come to the end of this post. Can you tell when my husband came home and everything kind of fell apart? I have a hard time writing and talking at the same time. I am loving this conference and I want desperately to be able to come again next year. It would be great to have this be part of my life on a regular basis. What a wonderful way to spend a week.

One more thing. I found out when I got home today that Karen writes fantasy. Today we read her story about Sheldon the very-cute-snail-that-I-liked. Yesterday we read about billions of zucchini taking over a garden. When I got home this evening I found that snails had eaten my zucchini plant AGAIN and we will not be having zucchini this year--AGAIN. I don't get it. It's all but a freakin' weed, and I can't grow zucchini to save my life.

Also, I am going to accost Lynne tomorrow and beg her to give me the recipe for her breakfast bars.