To grossly simplify things, this has been a hell of a week. Up, down, all around. I got an email letting me know a very famous author has my manuscript open on her computer. Unending knots in my stomach, hours staring at my ceiling at insane A.M., and a new chain gum-chewing habit. None of these things—including the Stride Sweet Peppermint addiction and requisite jawache—are things I could have foreseen a year ago.
As every edit unfolded, I learned things about myself as a writer. Now, with no more writing to do on this piece, I’m still learning, but this time about myself. The way I handle prospects. Disappointment. Good news of varying levels. I’ve come to understand that I often have a bad habit of seeing things in a really black and white way; the world doesn’t fit into column A and column B decisively. News and actions aren’t just good or bad; everything has a ripple effect, even if the desired outcome doesn’t materialize in that haiku-sized moment. I’m just finding it hard to contextualize the big picture when the now feels so weighted.
I’ve always lived life at a freakish pace, but through all of it, I’ve never considered myself an impatient person, nor someone who demanded instant gratification. I still don’t think I’m that way; hell, I had the patience to deal with writing and rewriting a novel. But I think I’m at a point where I need to understand that slowing down the momentum doesn’t mean things won’t happen, and that’s a different kind of patience all together.
As my agent always says, “Chin up.”
M
