So now, I wait.
I wrote a book. I just need to get it published. I sent out query emails to literary agents, which is exciting and scary. I feel like I need to pee and throw up at the same time. It’s like being pregnant again.*
But honestly, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain — mostly because I am stress eating. I have already changed my outfit once this morning because while my jeans are labeled skinny, I, sadly, am not at this particular point in time. It’s a function I’m sure of spending the past several months at home writing my heart out while positioned maybe 10 feet away from a fully-stocked pantry. I am fighting the urge *not* to attack the Belvita crackers, which always lull me into thinking I’m doing a good fake-out on my brain. Heeeey, gray matter! Look at me! I’m eating something sinfully decadent right now… chocolate cookies!
But in reality, the Belvitas are full of whole grains and fiber and aren’t fooling any of my chocolate-loving neurons. Invariably after I suck down the breakfast biscuits, I head back into the pantry for the real thing anyway. That is why my new skinny jeans are now draped over my teenage daughter’s desk chair. You’re welcome, No. 1.
So, I’m already feeling bad about myself and so it’s super unfortunate that the “Fiddler on the Roof” song “Tradition” has the same amount of syllables as “rejection” because that is what I hear in my head as I press “send” to these agents: “REJECTION! REJECTION! REEEE-JECTION! REJECTIOOOOONNN!”
At the same time, I expect to be rejected. Of course! How could I not be? I’ve done my research, I know about all the amazing writers — J.K. Rowling, Margaret Mitchell, William Faulkner* — who were turned down multiple times, so why should I be so special? Well, I blame “American Idol” and all those similar reality TV shows that lull us into thinking Cinderella stories can happen. Also, I heard about “The Hate U Give,” a debut novel that sparked a bidding war among publishers and was immediately optioned to be a movie. There is a glimmer of hope. Miracles can happen. I believe.
I have to believe.
And, if nothing else, I remember how my loving husband*** — who encouraged me to live my dream — and his friend, a kind-hearted, for-real bonafide published author, reminded me that what really matters about this whole experience is that I got to do what I love and that I wrote a book. How many people get to say that?
Also, I just remembered the bag of Trader Joe’s Churro Bites lurking on the top shelf the pantry. They’re baked! They can’t have that many calories….
*I’m not pregnant. Swearsies.
**Actually, I agree with that one.
***See Joe? I don’t always make fun of you. Sometimes I say nice things.