Well, “Here” is where I am: waiting for an editor to make an offer on my first book.
My brilliant agent has carefully selected specific editors, then pitched my manuscript in a way that accurately represents both me and the story.
And now we wait. Now we hope. Now
we I eat bowls and bowls of Chocolate Chex cereal and get snippy at my husband for things that aren’t his fault. Now I forget to write important meetings on my calendar yet I show up for dentist appointments I don’t have. Now I feel simultaneously tired and like I have just snorted and mainlined and smoked Arabica roast. Have I snorted coffee grounds? Maybe I have and just didn’t realize it.
Even better, The Doubts take this opportunity to throw loud and raucous parties in my head. They invite all of their friends and cousins and colleagues and yell, You’ll never get published! and Your book’s totally lame, and so are you! and Hey Big Butt, lay off the Chocolate Chex!
It’s good times at Casa Callender. Indeed, I’d like to be some place else other than Here. I’d like to be There. Or Over There. Even Way the Heck Over There would be better than Here.
But alas, I know, from the stories of other writers, Here is a place where I need to become comfy. If I’m going to stay in the biz, I might as well kick off my shoes, hang up my coat, and make myself a chocolate sandwich, hold the bread.
Why? [Read more…]