Here’s the good news:

An agent is not-not-interested in my book.

About a month ago, she asked for a revise-and-resubmit, which is exactly what it sounds like. It’s not a promise of representation, but she’s also not ready to say no to it without another look. Which is something. It’s a “See Me” at the top of an essay. It’s a “We’ll have auditions again next year—try again then.” At the very least, it’s a free, professional critique with a dose of tepid encouragement, which I’ll take.

The gist of the comments was as follows: Make it shorter. And, like, just…better. Which I get. This was an unwieldy and rather sprawling first novel, as I believe first novels are wont to be, and it will benefit from a good hacking. I’d just hoped to avoid it for a while longer.

I let another agent know that the first agent had requested the R&R, and asked if the second agent would like to read it when I’m done. She was like, “Yeaaah, sure, send it along!” as if I were asking to bring my shy friend Gretchen to her barbecue.

So now here I am, waist-deep in a book I still care about, but I’d moved on to other projects. It’s like when you eat your favorite food from when you were a kid. You might enjoy the nostalgia, but you can also taste all the artificial flavoring and think wistfully about how a baked potato wouldn’t give you heartburn (for some reason my mind went to Dunkaroos as a nostalgic childhood snack, even though I don’t remember ever eating them in my life—maybe I just wanted them so badly that I imagined eating them).

Anyway. Here’s the bad news:

I haven’t had a cup of coffee in about a year.

If you knew me in high school or college, you’ll know that I used to be able to drink coffee any time of the day or night, willy-nilly, devil-may-care, like some sort of…bandido. Eventually I moved on to harder stuff—energy drinks with B-vitamins and more sugar than you could burn in a week. While writing this book, I drank multiple espressos every day. I was out of control! I was the queen of caffeine! But I flew too close to the sun. The closer I got to thirty, the more jittery caffeine made me. It fed my anxiety and made me feel tense and dizzy.

First I tried cutting back a bit. One cup a day. Then half a cup. Then I switched to black tea. Then decaf black.

Now, I’m drinking matcha. Matcha! What’s happened to me?!

With only a fraction of the caffeine, this ground green tea has l-theanine in it to smooth you out. Plus, it’s got antioxidants and whatever. And yes, I’ve gotten used to the slightly musty taste of it (it’s a bit like how I’d imagine an old book to taste), and yes, it still technically satisfies my desire for a hot morning beverage.

But it’s not the same.

Sometimes I insert my nose directly into Bill’s coffee cup and pretend I can taste it. Like one of those drinky birds. I tell myself, maybe one day you’ll be able to drink coffee again.

But not while I’m working on edits for this book.

And so every day I slog over to my laptop, pull up the manuscript, take a delicate sip of the pale green liquid, and do what I can to make the book shorter and better. I’m getting through it, but it still feels…it feels like dreaming about juggling small animals—you’re like, “How did I get here?” and “Am I even qualified to do this?” but you just keep going because you’re afraid of the sound it would make if you dropped one of them.

This is a weird metaphor. I apologize. I HAVEN’T HAD CAFFEINE IN A YEAR.

Wish me luck, friends.

P.S.—I just looked up a picture of Dunkaroos. Even though I know how much regret would follow a packet of those little frosting-dipped devils, I still want some. Alongside an enormous cup of coffee.