I am writing.
The floodgates have opened. Well, OK, perhaps they are opening, and the trickle coming through is relief to my parched writer’s muse, standing underneath it and taking big gasping gulps. The pen on page (or in this case fingers on keyboard) is moving again, to my relief. I can hardly wait for each day, so I can put more down in this higgeldy-piggeldy pattern, working on six different projects at once. A bit here, a bit there, a new idea fleshed out over there…. Its intoxicating and exhausting all at once. I feel energy returning to my heavy, atrophied imagination, I can taste the sweet relief of 3 AM with a chapter staring back at me, glowing with the just-spent emotional upheaval which my writing can have on my soul.
I’m only getting a thousand words or so a day in the time between changing diapers, calming fussiness, and playing with Mega Blocks and shape sorters, but it is better than the nothing that came before, therefore I am jubilant.
So far in this storm surge of writing, I have written a scene for my WIP, I have read over a story I started five years before this, updated it, and I am now, with excitement, finishing it for submission.
Yes, I said submission.
So many of you have told me that I am silly not to send my work out there, that I am feeling heady and reckless, and immensely humbled at the reaction. Perhaps I could try… What’s the harm? I finished reading through the Harlequin submission guidelines last night. Gotta start somewheres, and this looks like a good place. Did you know they put out 115 titles a MONTH? Egads and all those wonderful exclamations to describe shock and awe at the prolific paperback influx on the romance aisle, twelve times a year.
Maybe I could be one of those authors.
To describe how I am feeling about this idea of sending something I wrote into someone else to tell me whether I am good enough or not: *ahem*
Absolutely *$@#& terrified.