Saturday morning and I should be working on a marketing plan; a requirement to go along with queries to literary agents. There's the synopsis, the marketing plan, the query letter and lastly the first fifty pages. Crisp and orderly, double spaced and reasoned. (Kelly, oh Ms. Cutrone, help, a little help please.) The marketing plan is to include things like why anyone would buy your book (why not is not an acceptable answer, sigh), what you will do to promote your book (an earnest and breathless "oh, anything" won't do; specificity and cleverness required here), a reasonable (this word keeps coming up) explanation of why you are qualified (platform, sigh) to write this, a list of people who are more famous than you that will say it's a good thing (humming Carly Simon's That's The Way It Should Be might help), apologizing that it's your kid and not you that has a hit tv show and trying to scan your facebook/twitter world for everyone who has a book and thus knows an agent.
So of course I swept the garage clean, washed slipcovers and dragged the ghostly lucite chairs and table to the back yard, plunked under a tree, noticed two burned out lights and found the proper 60 watt true light bulbs. And that is where, behind an assortment of bulbs, I discovered the hiding place of shoes I'd forgotten about. Iphone pictures under the messy avocado tree that the dogs love, only dappled clouds this morning; my blogging camera has been borrowed and not returned.
Marni shoes at top that may actually be ten years old, Marc Jacobs bright gold sequin espadrilles (perfect for poking out of the khaki jeans that I really, really want) only three years old, Moschino sort of madcap Dali-esque lipstick shoes (old, really ancient), those amazing Lanvin wood and blue fabric things that I can wear right now and the pink (pink, heavenly) Moschino's at the bottom.
I really should go through my closets today.