I mailed out a book proposal for a collection of essays this week. The book's audience is women, aged 35 to 55. I don't have an "in" with the publisher to whom it's been sent, so I have to hope my writing is engaging enough to interest the Submissions Coordinator.
That's the terrible unknown of a writer's life.
As long as the book is home with me, and I'm working on it, there is an abundance of hope. As soon as it's gone, out of my hands, its future in someone else's hands, there is an abundance of anxiety. Hope and anxiety in their usual awkward, jerky dance -- one leading for awhile, the other taking over, depending on the mood of the music on any given day.
Okay, I stretched that metaphor far enough.
This is the life of a writer. Persistence. Hope. Anxiety. Dread. Anticipation.
Sometimes I wish I'd never started down this rocky, windy path, but most days, I'm truly grateful to have this talent and to be using it every day.
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