Sea Shanties are a Gateway Drug to Bagpipes: A Writing Update

Sea Shanties have risen in popularity since Fishermen’s Friends got their movie on Netflix (recommend!) but I am here to warn you that the clapping and harmonies and history that makes you weep WILL LEAD TO BAGPIPES. I’m currently fangirling about the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. No sarcasm. Let those pipes echo off the cliff faces and crash into the place where you rage against sin and wickedness and cry for the end of days to come.

What else am I listening to these days, you ask? Whatever Pandora gives me, heavy on Andrew Peterson and Rich Mullins, light on Florence + the Machine and some video game soundtracks, doused liberally with shanties from Great Big Sea (may they rest in peace). I’m writing a lot lately and I need music to drown out my kids who go around saying hilarious things like “nom de plume” instead of “screen name.”

I’m writing the book of my heart, which is to say I love it enough that I might be willing to self-publish. Maybe. I don’t want to be a publisher, I want to be a writer. I’m attending a conference next weekend that focuses on the topic of publishing and marketing, and hopefully I’ll get a sense of what might be right for this book. I would prefer to secure an agent, of course, most writers do. But it is a business transaction, so an agent not only needs to love your book, they need to believe they can sell it to market. That I have proclaimed Christ all over this blog could cancel me before I ever begin, a fact of which I am aware, but there is no going back now, so I am going forward. I have not and will not post about politics. I will not post about controversial issues. I will, however, warn you if you’re headed down a road that end with bagpipes. So, there’s that.

I thought about what might happen if I do not secure representation for this book and I realized that it wouldn’t matter—I would just write the next book. And the next one. And the next one. I used to dread updating my writing ambitions and having to ‘fess up that a barren road stretches before me to the horizon, but now I don’t care. I’m just after the next novel that needs to come out. It’s what I do. I write. This is a benefit to the community at large, because every classic dinner party needs a Would-Be-Novelist at the table, and I am GREAT at dinner parties, praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.

And if this novel should make it to stores, or airports, or libraries, or the used book shelf at Savers, that would be excellent. And I would write the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that. So there it is, me hearties. I’m writing. It’s lovely. Thank you for asking.

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