Do they like me? Do they really like me?
I've realized with so much discussion revolving around the day job, my kid, vacation, and all things called a bad mood, I haven't spared one single detail about my writing life. The other half of Mommy Writer.
My book has gone to submission. For all the non-published, non-interested-in-publishing (and quite possibly those thinking of getting published one day) this means editors have seen my book. And are quite possibly reading and considering it RIGHT NOW.
Does it make me nervous, giddy, and a ball full of anxiousness? You bet your bottom dollar. Hours of my night time television viewing is wrapped into that book, sweat, tears, rewrites in 6 weeks, and of course a dream of seeing my name in print on a fiction book. So, yes, I am all of the above. And more.
I even did what any wanna-be novelist does on completion, turn-in, and waiting now for any response from those powers that be-- I went on vacation for a week. Then spent a week or so recovering. Ate lots of ice cream. And chocolate. Caught up on some lost sleep. Got buried in the day job. And then finally balled up enough nerve to start the next book. Officially.
Even though it sounds all official and fun and all that--it is more or less, hours spent analyzing the old manuscript, wondering if you should change your website, write better blog posts, and filling up on all those Tivo'd sitcoms you avoided while doing rewrites. Oh, and crossing your fingers someone will like you. Enough to sign you that is.
My book has gone to submission. For all the non-published, non-interested-in-publishing (and quite possibly those thinking of getting published one day) this means editors have seen my book. And are quite possibly reading and considering it RIGHT NOW.
Does it make me nervous, giddy, and a ball full of anxiousness? You bet your bottom dollar. Hours of my night time television viewing is wrapped into that book, sweat, tears, rewrites in 6 weeks, and of course a dream of seeing my name in print on a fiction book. So, yes, I am all of the above. And more.
I even did what any wanna-be novelist does on completion, turn-in, and waiting now for any response from those powers that be-- I went on vacation for a week. Then spent a week or so recovering. Ate lots of ice cream. And chocolate. Caught up on some lost sleep. Got buried in the day job. And then finally balled up enough nerve to start the next book. Officially.
Even though it sounds all official and fun and all that--it is more or less, hours spent analyzing the old manuscript, wondering if you should change your website, write better blog posts, and filling up on all those Tivo'd sitcoms you avoided while doing rewrites. Oh, and crossing your fingers someone will like you. Enough to sign you that is.
