I spent three days dreaming up the perfect “F” word and all I could come up with was that song by Cee Lo Green, F______ YOU”. Regardless of the version you choose, the result is the same. While I adore the song, both versions, decided I’d best not choose either of those “F”s.
Frenzied describes my life right now. I write, I blog, I cook, I edit, I query, I tweet, I FaceBook, and do all the things that have to be done, eating, cleaning, bathing, pretending to listen to my other (money man), and all at a frenzied pace, but I still feel three days behind.
Fabulous is my first grandbaby. She’s beyond amazing and I could spend every second holding her, and kissing her little fingers and toes. In fact, when I get to spend time with her I don’t set her down, much to my son’s chagrin, but he can get over it.
Failure. No matter how big the pep talk I give myself prior to reading that email. You know the one, the response to your query one. When the answer is no, whether it’s an eloquent note, a long description of why not, or the evil abominable form letter, I feel like a failure. I know there are thousands of agents out there and I only need one, but each reject makes me sick, literally.
Failure. Failure. Failure. I read the rejection ten times at least, trying to glean every shred of useable info imparted. I take that chunk of criticism and go back to edit and then despair. Unless the agent has specifically said I can resubmit, I sit there and stew, and pout, and frown, and curse the futility of trying to get published and then the inevitable. I google self-publishing websites and read their promises of automatic success and world-wide recognition. I’m not ready to go there yet, but it gives me a glimmer of hope. It makes the failure easier to swallow anyway.