waiting – day one

Thing is, a large dose of bravado is what this author needed to press send.

The covering letter to my agent took half as long as the synopsis of my manuscript (pretty much most of the day). Husband had instructed me not to disparage my work, or come across like a desperate fifty year old divorcee at a singles’ night in Cape Town, where there are seven women to every man, and most of those are gay. Challenging, since I default to self-deprecation and I’m more neurotic than Woody Allen (sans the big ego – i.e. I would never cast myself in the role of ladies’ man, looking the way I do).

I pressed send with shaking mouse-hand.

Thing is, even though an author may pour her heart and soul into a piece of work for six long years, it is not a literal part of her. While her manuscript is being read, she cannot feel the reader’s hands paging across her body, or their breath on her pages, or their tears turning her papery fibers to pulp as they weep at some particularly beautiful prose.  Once the story leaves her head, it leaves her. It’s a bit like amputating a toe. The toe is still yours, but you can’t feel it anymore.

So now, every time my mail client pings to let me know another piece of junk mail has been delivered to my inbox, my heart races. My mouse-hand shakes. And, no matter how good the Groupon offer, or creative the 419 scam, I’m disappointed.

Pressing send was hard. Waiting is worse.