A Story about a Stag Party

About a week before my wedding, I had a bachelor party.  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – but the only pasties that were involved were the five of us up in the upper deck, and the only booze that was imbibed was whatever beer was on tap – and I don’t think all of us had imbibed.  As far as I know, there are only a couple of blurred pictures of us sitting in O.co Coliseum.  In typical Jim Owen fashion, my bachelor’s party amounted to hiking, burgers, and a ballgame. You need to worry about this guy; haven’t you heard he’s a wild man? Sure, it was a subdued affair, but it was one last hurrah before I became a married man.

What does this have to do with writing, you might ask?

The rise of the modern bachelor party in the 20th century probably has little to do with the festivities that Spartan soldiers held for their comrades in the 5th Century B.C., but the modern bachelor party has become a time when the bachelorette conveniently looks the other way on her future husband – and vice versa – before the big commitment.  That’s one night in which Mike Tyson may sing Phil Collins, Ed Helms may get a face tattoo, and even you might be left atop a Las Vegas casino.

And this is where I get to the writing.

Today, I took my second step (or first, in a roundabout way) toward publication.   In September, I’d reached out to a publisher about getting my first novel published.  In many ways, I like what they’re selling.  However, they didn’t have the “bandwidth” or the “manpower” at the time, and encouraged me to look elsewhere, while still leaving the possibility open for me to join their stable.  Things got busy, and then they got very busy.  Less than a month ago, I began to see openings, wherein I could potentially take the time and reach out to agents – the first step in getting published by a major imprint.  Today, I finally took the time.

So, you might ask, does this metaphor of a bachelor’s party extend any further?

It might.  My first query letter to an agent is the equivalent of the intrepid bachelor going out to a club and then hitting on the most attractive woman in the room.  Is it wise? Probably not.  Does success with this agency mean something? Yes, it probably does.  Unlike the ill-formed decisions of a bachelor at his own stag party, the first signs of this success will not happen right away.  Heck, these signs probably will not happen within a few weeks; the auto-reply message stated that I will likely have to wait eight to ten weeks for a reply, if I hear a reply at all.

In the meantime, I have missed the start of Camp NaNoWriMo by ten days, and was thinking of playing catch-up this weekend.  That’s right, I was thinking of writing 16,670 words in two days.  I’ve heard of far worse, including people who somehow manage to hammer out more than 50,000 in just a few days, but this would’ve nearly doubled my daily maximum for two consecutive days.  Committing 8,000 words to paper in a day is not a laughing matter, and may also be ill-advised, or at least ill-formed.  With a goal of so many words in so little time, you might be left to wonder just how many words I managed to eke out.

The answer is zero, my dear readers, as in even less than one.

Coincidentally, that’s the number of drinks I’ll have during this literary debauchery.

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