Angst

The next few blogs posts may be shorter than normal. I’m in a contest for literary representation. Though truthfully whenever you’re trying to get a literary agent that’s always the case. But this is a special case for a lot of reasons. First the whole thing will be over by the end of the month—instead of the passing months multiplying like rabbits. Second, you don’t have to submit a query letter or a synopsis. (I’m doing the happy dance in my fuzzy socks.) Especially since I haven’t written either one yet. Imagine how cool it would be to land an agent without having had to write them.

Of course, now I’ve decided that the entire novel needs to be read-through one more time. Just in case. So I started. At first it went really well. Then, hyper-anxiety found me.  And any reliable read of my material went out the door. I started wondering if it was all drivel. Now I know what you’re thinking—are all writers such narcissist navel gazers? The answer is yes. But it’s not quite our fault. I was reading the blog of a famous agent who’s also a writer. She’s known for her razor-sharp editing skills and keen nose for greatness. What was she blogging about? The latest crit feedback she got on her work-in-progress. All the plot holes, rotten dialogue, etc.

On the one hand, it’s encouraging. Okay, I can be a writer and have editing angst. If one of the best struggles with editing her work, then it’s all right if I do too.

However, if she can’t always spot her mistakes, what does that say about me? See, now I’m back to the drivel thing.

Where does that leave me? I’m not sure. But I’m not going to wallow in a pity puddle (sorry, I couldn’t resist the alliteration). Instead, I’m “putting on my big girl panties” and picking up my red pen.