There are some things a writer should not do. Talking from experience now–limited though it may be–and not referring to actual writing, per se. . .
Right now, my manuscript–replete with revisions based on comments/suggestions made by my agent–is in the hands of said agent. I’m waiting for his response, which may be forthcoming within the week.
But I’m not just waiting, and that is the problem. I’m fretting. Second-guessing. Wondering if I–
I shall not finish that thought, not here. I refuse to give credence to such a thought on this most public of forums. Suffice to say, I am flirting with Doubt right now. No, I’m stepping out with Mr. Doubt, dipping and swaying and standing toe-to-toe, gazing into those black sockets of despair; a willing participant in His Unholiness’ macabre dance of doom and gloom and all that unhappy stuff.
All things considered, I have zip to complain about. I’m in a really good place right now. Five novels in four years; two of which are viable or damn close to it; one of which got me an agent. That particular novel has been worked and reworked and, in doing so, I’ve definitely refined my craft. I’ve been lucky enough to have had great betas, great support, and I now have a great agent from a great agency who read and loved my book.
Loved. Hopefully, not past tense and therein lies the rub, you see.
And there she goes again.