This Is Just To Say

I have sent
the book
to some trusted
readers

and to
the agents
who had
requested it.

Now I sit
waiting for responses
so lonely
and so tired.

My Revise & Resubmit request is now finished and sent off to agents, who will read through it and let me know whether they would like to represent me or not. It took a few months longer than I’d hoped, but now I know for next time that I am Slow At Things and will estimate accordingly.

However, now that I’ve done as much as I can on this project, I’m having a hard time jumping into the next one. I have at least six books I would consider focusing on, all in varying states of existence. But it’s hard to go from something that is finished and as good as I can make it, to something that’s half-finished, riddled with flaws, and promises a long slog of drafts and edits before the agony of rewrites. I mean, does thinking about it fill me with a sort of nervous motivation to get started on all that work left to do? Yes. But then I open the file. I look at the sentences I wrote. I mutter, Did a toddler write this? I close the document. I pull up a list of Careers for People with No Useful Life Skills. Then I stare out the window for a little while until it’s time for lunch.

So instead of diving into something new, I’ve been keeping myself busy with little tasks here and there. You know. Baking. Sewing. Sighing heavily. Walking aimlessly through the garden while wringing my hands. I’ve also been reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to the dogs. They’ve never read it before, and I figured it was time. They…don’t seem that into it, but we just got to Hogwarts. That’s when it really picks up, I told them.

Mostly I’ve been trying to reconcile the fact that we’ll never be able to hear all the stories from this strange, surreal time. Stories of such fear and joy and resiliency and compassion are taking place all around us, and it’s so frustrating that I can’t know them all. So I hope you’ll share some of yours. Leave a comment here, send an email, post on social media. That’s one of the ways we make sense of the things that happen to us, by cobbling them together into a story. I’m dying to hear yours. Please send them along and share them with your people. Even if your stories seem insignificant. Even if you think they don’t matter. They do.

Here’s one of mine:

A week ago, my nephew turned two. My entire family was in the same (virtual) room, which doesn’t happen often—it certainly hasn’t happened in Zade’s lifetime. And as we sang happy birthday from seven different houses across two different states, in all different keys and tempos, for a moment I couldn’t feel that heaviness that’s been hanging around for the last month. Just for a moment. And that was enough.