Every morning I check my email, trying not to hold my breath. Who knows if this might be the morning that I get an email from a literary agent saying, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Though sometimes it’s much nicer, “You’re clearly a talent writer, and your book is inventive, but …” Or, maybe it’s the morning I’ll get an email that says, “Hey, I’d like to talk about your book. When’s a good time to call?”
Of course, the other alternative is that the agent will call out of the blue. “Hey, Connie, I’m The-Greatest-Literary-Agent-In-The-World-Who-Really-Loves-Your-Book.” So, every time the phone rings, part me thinks “maybe.” Then, when it turns out to be a computer-generated voice telling me the warranty on my car is about to expire, I want to shoot the phone and strangle the idiot who created fake phone calls.
In other words, I’m learning the lost art of patience. Personally, I think I’ve learned quite enough already—it’s time to move along to the next lesson. But, just maybe, it’s that attitude that keeps me learning more. It’s especially hard when someone who’s ignorant of the nastiness of the process says, “My friend’s neighbor’s cousin, thrice-removed heard in two days.” I respond with my best totally fake smile, “Isn’t that just great.” In my head, I think, “I will not covet, I will not covet, and I will not bite off this foolish person’s head.”
I don’t know, but the longer I wait, the more I want to bite off the head of something—Matthew has some Easter peeps leftover. Maybe biting off the head of a yellow chick would make me feel better. Except, Matthew’s pretty protective of his peeps…I might lose my head too.