I woke up okay. I made coffee, Clooney's antics made me smile, Mario liked the Valentine I gave him, I felt mentally stable. And then that snake of panic and fear that lives in my guts woke up and the ghost of future-tripping started rattling its chains: you'll never get an agent, you'll never get a job, you'll never have healthcare and will die a painful death from a treatable disease. Not even the kitty could pull me out of it.
I think, besides hormones and the fact I don't sleep at night, my problem is that the writer's conference is this weekend, along with the speed dating for an agent business. The closer it gets, the worse I get. Because, in my head, the before is full of hope and anticipation that things will work out. But come Monday...well, it could be bad, day after a bad Christmas bad. I have psychically put all my eggs in one basket.
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A little prayer goes a long way. I have nothing but faith in your talent.
ReplyDeleteThe future of publishing is changing. Even if you don't get an agent you can be a successful author. Whatever success means to you. I'm working on brainwashing myself into believing that success is striving for excellence in my writing. Whatever the results are - that's God's business. I hate saying that. But it's the only thing that soothes my twisting gut. Do the footwork and be kind to yourself. I'll do the same. Deal?
ReplyDeleteDeal.
ReplyDeleteThe conference was okay. I alternated between excitement and despair listening to the numbers and seeing all those desperate, hopeful writers. I thought the editors and agents were all smart, driven, and (most of them) kind.