I have submitted a book to a publisher.
I have sent a manuscript off for consideration.
I have taken the first step in the publication process.
No matter how I word it, it says the same thing. I am a writer and I am in waiting. I never honestly expected the stress level to be so high, and that makes me wonder what this is all about for me. Is it simply the fear of rejection, the fear that others will take a peek into the wild and morbid ramblings of my inner thought life and toss it on a pile to be shredded? Is it really the fear of 'not good enough' that has me running to the mail every day, holding my breath until I see there is no Self-Addressed-Stamped-Envelope with two Yankee stamps, just in case? Casting a wary glance at the caller ID in the vain hopes of a Manhattan area code coming up? Honestly, I never thought I was this fearful. It must be something else.
This is a quiet place, this inner place of mine, a quiet place, a dark place of sunlight and shadows, of moon-lit nights and strange leafy landscapes. In this place, I am young and very slim. I have wild dark hair and no breasts and I live with the animals. This is the place that is me, truly me, and while I can darken my hair, fill my home with predators and try like hell to stay slim, the rest is vain, a chasing after the wind. I am almost fifty, with three wild untamed children, and I believe this is what I have created in them, the desire to be free and happy with all that has been created, whether in this world, or their own. I wish this for them, the poetry and the prose of happiness, and the great dark beautiful blanket of grief.
I write crime stories very well. I write clear and luminescent poetry. I write fantasy as if I live there. Everything else is up for grabs. So what is it about the very act of submitting that has increased the anxiety within me? Actually, it is a noun. How interesting. The noun for submitting is submission.
I am a scrapper by nature, even while a people pleaser at heart. Must be the Irish in me. Or the Scot. I yearn to be more self-posessed, more self-aware, but less self-absorbed. The very heart of conflict, I should think. The duality of life. What is it that fears self-expression, while at the same time yearns for it? Submitting to life, to aging, to trauma, to loss, even to joy, to friendship, to love, all of these cause me to bristle, and therefore to fight. If my book is rejected, I know what to expect. If it is accepted, well now, that is unknown territory, and therefore, scary.
My manuscript has over 235,000 words, and I've only begun to scratch the surface of what is there.
I have submitted a book to a publisher.
Let's see where this goes...=)
I have sent a manuscript off for consideration.
I have taken the first step in the publication process.
No matter how I word it, it says the same thing. I am a writer and I am in waiting. I never honestly expected the stress level to be so high, and that makes me wonder what this is all about for me. Is it simply the fear of rejection, the fear that others will take a peek into the wild and morbid ramblings of my inner thought life and toss it on a pile to be shredded? Is it really the fear of 'not good enough' that has me running to the mail every day, holding my breath until I see there is no Self-Addressed-Stamped-Envelope with two Yankee stamps, just in case? Casting a wary glance at the caller ID in the vain hopes of a Manhattan area code coming up? Honestly, I never thought I was this fearful. It must be something else.
This is a quiet place, this inner place of mine, a quiet place, a dark place of sunlight and shadows, of moon-lit nights and strange leafy landscapes. In this place, I am young and very slim. I have wild dark hair and no breasts and I live with the animals. This is the place that is me, truly me, and while I can darken my hair, fill my home with predators and try like hell to stay slim, the rest is vain, a chasing after the wind. I am almost fifty, with three wild untamed children, and I believe this is what I have created in them, the desire to be free and happy with all that has been created, whether in this world, or their own. I wish this for them, the poetry and the prose of happiness, and the great dark beautiful blanket of grief.
I write crime stories very well. I write clear and luminescent poetry. I write fantasy as if I live there. Everything else is up for grabs. So what is it about the very act of submitting that has increased the anxiety within me? Actually, it is a noun. How interesting. The noun for submitting is submission.
I am a scrapper by nature, even while a people pleaser at heart. Must be the Irish in me. Or the Scot. I yearn to be more self-posessed, more self-aware, but less self-absorbed. The very heart of conflict, I should think. The duality of life. What is it that fears self-expression, while at the same time yearns for it? Submitting to life, to aging, to trauma, to loss, even to joy, to friendship, to love, all of these cause me to bristle, and therefore to fight. If my book is rejected, I know what to expect. If it is accepted, well now, that is unknown territory, and therefore, scary.
My manuscript has over 235,000 words, and I've only begun to scratch the surface of what is there.
I have submitted a book to a publisher.
Let's see where this goes...=)
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