So now I embark on what ranks as my least favourite part of the “oh, hey, yeah, I’m a writer” way of life. The sitting around waiting after my manuscript has been sent out for consideration. Right now, it’s with my agent. If she gives it the thumbs up, it goes out to publishers. Which involves more waiting. And nail chewing. And wall climbing.
The only thing I can liken it to is sending the kids off to school for their first day. So, you set your alarm and rouse your manuscript good and early in the day so it’s well-prepared for what lies ahead. You give it a little pep talk over breakfast and run it through spell check to make sure it’s putting its best foot forward. You pen it a cover note that’s enthusiastic without sounding self-delusional, eager but not stalky, and airily amusing but not flippant. Then you help it with its uniform, pack it into an email, and wave goodbye. Then, you spend the rest of the day fretting about whether or not your little darling has been received well and is currently making friends.
Only difference with the current scenario is that unlike the school-aged child, I’ve no idea when my manuscript will arrive back in my inbox.
Yes, most jobs have an endemic stress level when it comes to fretting about how something we’ve done will be received by the gatekeepers who oversee our careers. But books are written in isolation with minimal input from people along the way. And they’re LOOOOONG. Very, very long. My latest is 100,000 words. Yes, I’m a fast writer. But, still. That’s a whole lot of words. It’s a huge amount of effort involved in making something that may never go anywhere. Because, yes, that happens. Frequently. It’s an all-or-nothing roll of the dice.
Why do I do it? Moments like these, I’m not entirely sure.
Still, wish me luck. As I wish all the other creatives out there well. It’s a tough gig. But we keep going, right? Because the urge to create isn’t a choice. It’s a compulsion.
