Currently listening to: "Temple of Love" (1992 version) by Sisters of Mercy
Current weather: Gusty with intermittent rain, chance of flooding (yippee!)
Well. If you have seen my Facebook in the past couple days, you will already know: I have made it the Island of Extreme Waiting again.
An agent down London way has asked for the full manuscript of my novel just shy of three months after I'd sent the query. I sent the full on Thursday, hesitating before I hit the Send button, for fear that I'd:
- Typed her name wrong
- Sent the wrong book (even after closely editing the document about twelve times)
- Formatted it in a way that she may not like (double-spaced, 12 point Times New Roman, we're all happy with that, aren't we?)
- Emailed the entirely wrong agent, at the wrong agency
Fortunately, after yet another careful check, I think all was clear. I think. I swallowed. I hit Send.
I felt just a little less like throwing up this time. (Quite unlike the first time sending the full to an agent.) And so I guess it is true, it does get a little bit easier as time goes on.
I call it the Island of Extreme Waiting, where I am right now, because it is not just waiting in the typical sense. It is not a breezy, sort of off-hand kind of casual waiting. It is the Wait in the Doctor's Office. It's the Wait in the Mad Scramble to Get A Place At Your First-Choice University. The Standing at the Altar, Waiting for Your Bride. It's an island because it is so alone, and because you are stranded, fearing spiders, fog, and strange noises in the night, the expectant glances of others. You Wait. You See.
You know, if nothing else, I have learned patience. I know, my better half might not agree. But within myself, inside all my squidgy insides, I know that I can wait patiently. I might be the hopping, madly-grinning, exciteable me: but I can wait.
On this Island, I make myself a mai tai to celebrate. I sit under a palm tree. I listen to the tropical birds. I enjoy the view. I wait.
Mango Mai Tai. Recipe here.
Happy Saturday, all!