My head's in the 1890's.
Louis Sullivan's architecture is celebrated, his buildings still smell of wet plaster and paint. Electric street cars share the roads with horse carts and buggies. People walk to destinations because it's cheap transportation.
Two literary agents are considering full manuscripts and I wonder where they are at with the reading and the possibility of offering.
I should compile a list of small press publishers to submit the manuscript to if things don't work out, but when do I pull the plug and figure these agents aren't falling in love with the story? So it's not a blockbuster, but maybe it would fit into a small niche where authors don't receive an advance and the royalties are next to nothing.
Work is piling up as clients race the ticking tax bomb clock.
No wonder I'm in the 1890's. The pace is slow because speed has yet to be invented. Time is short.
I have to leave for work soon.
Sorry if I seem distracted, or rush you to finish the conversation. I'm in the 1890's with the characters of a novel I'm writing, and they're more interesting than the fate of Lebron James.