The waiting game is a hell of a thing.
I’ve written over and over how this novel has taught me things about myself that I never imagined fiction could. And one of those things has been about relinquishing control, which is one of the daily struggles I find hardest. So now, with the manuscript out of my hands, potential good news floating in the wind, I’m waiting. At this point, there’s nothing more I can do besides sit tight, hope for the best, and be the person who was smart, engaged, and excited enough to finish a manuscript that’s brought me this far in the first place.
I’m nervous, but I know this is the best thing that could possibly be happening. Learning slowly what it’s like to put your future in someone else’s hands. Weighing good news and bad news, figuring out what’s important, what’s worth reacting to. Managing the balance between hopes and expectations, confidence and premature zeal. Understanding that as much as you want to control certain things, they’re not yours to touch. As much of an adult as I feel sometimes, I know I’m still learning—as cliche as it sounds—and as this process plays out, I’m still convinced that there’s no better, more awesomely unique way to grow than through your own pages.
The pages you’re desperately hoping will soon be under the thumbs of perfect strangers.
M
