Being a writer is a lonely pursuit.
Once you've finished your work, it only gets lonelier. No one else shares your sheer anxiety and self-doubt while you wait for someone to please, please pick up your book or decide to represent you.
I've sent my letter to an agency. The waiting game has begun.
My book, tentatively titled The von Strassenbergs, ended at 254 pages. Abbie says it's wonderful and better than Twilight. Which may not be saying much, because she didn't like Twilight. It's now time to begin the rewrite and I'm wondering if I should even waste my time, but if I don't and the agency actually wants my book, well wouldn't that just figure?
Last night the second book in the series started drifting through my head and I just wanted it to stop. This is why I gave up writing all those years ago. So much time spent locked away, hunched over a computer, crying and laughing about people that are only figments of your imagination while the flesh and blood outside your door continues growing and changing...and then you don't even get a response and you know you've wasted moments of your life and theirs that you can never get back.
And let's not even mention the guilt of being a wife and a mother and neglecting your duties so you can have nothing to show for it in the end because no one wants your book.
It's a difficult thing being a writer.
But it is a good story. If I do say so. And I would be ecstatic to have it faithfully made into a film, because it would be thrilling to see Viktor and Katherine and Raquel and the boys all walking around doing those things I know they will do.
Pray that I do not fall into despair whilst I wait.
The pit beckons me and it is hard to refuse.
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