Salmon

On Sunday we drove up to the Salmon Festival. Special K loved feeding the rainbow trout fry. Little T loved watching her and everything else.

We gazed down at some ambitious salmon who were trying to gather early to spawn, but the gate to the fish ladder wasn't open yet. We talked to a park official who said the water wasn't cold enough yet. The salmon were immature. The eggs were unripe. In some ways I feel like those salmon. I'm not ready. The gate hasn't been opened yet. And even after the gate is opened, I'll still have to jump up. One of my friends wrote a poem about salmon leaping up the salmon run and law school.

I'm still an immature salmon who has 9250 words of her 75k non-fiction book written. I wrote 850 words today. I'll write a lot more and have a solid book proposal before I send it off to agents. I think I'm about a month away. That's about how far the salmon are too. It amuses me.

I talked to my sister more about her former life as a literary agent. I've also been reading Miss Snark's blog. I thought it was interesting that she wrote she wasn't one of the most powerful agents in town. On the Internet no-one knows if you're a dog. And I laughed when she told people to stop querying her. I can't imagine querying someone whose work I know nothing about. Of course I need someone who believes my non-fiction book is wonderful. But I'd also prefer an agent who's already sold a book similar to mine.

I also revised my personal essay about my struggles with breastfeeding to send to another parenting magazine.