For those ever considering writing a novel and then trying to get it published, I urge you to find some unassuming psychopharmacologist willing to prescribe you copious anti-anxiety medication.
Accordingly, let’s take a foray into the writer’s head at this stage in the process, in which manuscript is out to confidential number of ridiculously amazing editors at confidential ridiculously amazing publishing houses. Top five points of the last week, summarized semi-succinctly below (in which the writer begins to speak in third person, Rejectionist-style, as nerves increase to astounding levels):
- Writer has not really slept since last Friday, when calls to editors started. (1a: F train naps do not contribute towards overall “well-rested” goal.)
- Writer should probably be paying the Prospect Park YMCA rent, and apologizes to her fellow Y patrons for her angsty appearances on the spinner, which is currently Writer’s only outlet to funnel anxiety.
- Writer has developed odd habit of not only being nosy about which books fellow New Yorkers are reading, but now also which presses have published them. This is unbecoming to watch in action.
- Writer was never a fan of roller coasters nor virtual reality simulators (except at the Intrepid; that one kicked ass). Yet, the cognitive dissonance surrounding the “I need to stay grounded/I need to let myself dream” divide has erected the world’s finest nausea-inducing ride inside Writer’s abdomen.
- Whether she intended it, Agent has become surrogate second mother and light therapist. Writer is highly, highly sorry for this fact, but plans on baking Agent a tray of her famous Vegan Kitchen Sink Cookie Bars as soon as she can again be trusted near open flames.
Writer M
Tuesday, June 15th 2010 4:52pm
