The Waiting.

 Being patient and enduring change. These are two things I've never been particularly good at. These are two things that now practically define my life. 

At present, I'm waiting. 

After one writes a book and seeks to see it published, the waiting is all there is. Submit queries. Wait for replies. Endure rejections. Submit more. And wait, wait, wait. 

 And then, the day comes that a publisher, and then an agent, request your full manuscript to read. What a miracle! So you hurry up to give it a final polish and then you hurry up to hit send and then...you wait.

For months you wait. Sixty days, ninety, a projection, at best. It may be sooner; it may be later. 

The waiting intensifies. 

You teeter on the precipice of everything and nothing...literally. 

You're waiting to receive that fateful email. The email that will say, yes! Or that email that will say, no. There won't be any in-between. And there's no way to know. At this point, it is literally out of your hands and into the hands of an unknowable stranger who either will or they won't. You're on the verge of getting a proposal, and you're on the verge of being dumped. Anything could happen. 

And all you can know in this interim is that there's no way you can know anything. 

You may even find yourself turning to the tarot to try to sneak a peek ahead. But even this is a fool's errand, something you do on your most desperate days to try to cope with the awful void of the unknowable unknown.

In this in-between season, there are days that are good, days that are bad. 

On the good days, you're full of hope; a blinding, aspirational, nothing-can-stop-me-for-this-is-fated kind of hope. You re-read your manuscript. Your collective words bring involuntary smiles to your face, over and over. This is it, you're certain. This is, enough. The grand enough. It will be accepted, embraced; it will be planted. It will grow, it will flourish. You're going back to the Big Five, oh yes, and this time, they will say, welcome. And there'll be a future, a viable future. You close your eyes and imagine what your novel will be like when adapted to the screen. You indulge in the wayward fantasies of listening to songs on the imaginary soundtrack you've created that will accompany the most meaningful of scenes. Yes, sometimes, there are good days. The infinite is the absolute, and the inevitable. You count forward, anticipating... four more weeks; six more weeks; three more months until... I can breathe. You refresh and refresh your inbox hoping for an earlier-than-expected response. You see nothing. But you're undaunted. Maybe tomorrow, you affirm. Or maybe not. But when that email hits, its going to be good news, the best news. 

But then, all the more frequently, there are bad days. You're full of uncertainty, the most dismal of all foreboding. You re-read your manuscript. Your collective words are cause for you to cringe. Where did those little damned little typos come from? Didn't you edit this until your brains practically liquified? What a shame. It's too late now. And...what even is it that you think you've accomplished here? Why in the living hell did you think that attempting a nonlinear narrative, something you've never before tried, was a good idea for your first novel? Do you even know how to write this or did you just... expel this whole thing as if it were an involuntary regurgitation? 

Yes, those bad days... all you can believe is, this isn't enough. It may never be enough, because you may not even be enough. No one will accept it. It will never be planted. It will never grow, never flourish. Forget where you managed to land between 2014-2016, four Big Five imprints; you're never going back; you're never going anywhere. There is no future. And all else pertaining to the good days aren't daydreams you can even bring yourself to indulge. You're sick, simply sick with how inadequate you are. And you drown. You avoid your inbox but succumb to the overpowering compulsion to hit refresh anyway. You hold your breath. And when you stare into the void of nothing, you're almost relieved. But then, haunted. Maybe tomorrow, your inner voice laments. Or maybe not. But prepare yourself for how you're going to prepare yourself, because... when that email hits, it is going to be bad news, the worst news.

And such is the rhythm of my life right now. I am uncomfortable. But I know I need to get used to being uncomfortable. I know I need to work a dialectical on this experience because the actual truth is probably a combination of both extremes: no is as likely as yes. No doesn't mean never, just not now. Anything can happen. This process is as nonlinear as my narrative. I know I am a good writer who has written a unique story and I have grown to a point of being confident in that. 

I need to embrace this sense of being uncomfortable because... the beginning is only the beginning. Even when I get an agent, get signed with a publisher... that's only the start of the journey. There is but more waiting ahead of me. More hurrying up to push ahead and then...pause. Sit with uncertainty. Sit with knowing that the only thing I can know is that I know nothing. 

I am uncomfortable. And yet... this state is a gift. It is only when we're faced with "uncomfortable" that we're challenged to grow. 

No matter what, in the end... I am going to come out stronger, with more wisdom to share. 

God is good, all the time. He knows the plans He has for us. Count it all joy when faced with struggles, for this is when He grows us. 

Yes, yes, and yes. Here I am, Lord, okay? I will move through my experiences and embrace, accept my feelings and thank You for giving me the strength to face all things, through You. 

Amen. So mote it be. And... ready or not, I'm ready. Or not.