At my internship I spend the majority of the day reading manuscripts. The formula goes as such: Query Letter, Synopsis, and the first chapter. The material itself is always different, and yet, after five hours of reading ‘slush’ they all seem to blend together— the chess champion falls in love with the archangel who is going to seduce the Scotsman who lives alone on a lake, and slowly, ever so slowly, the meaning of friendship and true love is defined. But honestly, the best part about this job is the reading. Whether or not a given manuscript is picked up for representation, I find an endless amount of inspiration from the people— the day-job working people— who make the time to sit down and write their story. We receive dozens of manuscripts a day; if they can do it I can too.
I realize that this is my third blog entry and I have failed to provide a Query Letter, a Synopsis, or any basic information surrounding my situation and the transition I’m about to make. The premise, as best as I can piece together, is this:
I am in entering a new stage in my life, where September no longer means signing up for classes, where student loans appear for the first time, where the reality of a 9-5 job sets in. But I want something first, I want stolen years. Years spent writing, spent believing in my work as much as anything else. Years to be young: to be in love.
The countdown begins, and after three months living in Harlem New York I have nine days to go before moving to Asheville North Carolina.
And the journey— the stolen years— begin.