I can tell myself that I'm not nervous or anxious about the outcome of my second novel (working title: Shaky Grounds), and yet, ever since hearing from John (first name only of my agent) that he likes the book and will be preparing to submit again, I've been filled with a buzzy energy that wakes me up in the mornings. It's a vulnerable place to be, this constant waiting. Writing is 3/4 waiting, I've decided. Waiting for inspiration, waiting for language and plot and characters to connect up in a reasonable cohesion, waiting for feedback and responses to stories and novels and queries. It's maddening sometimes.

And having a "real job" as grateful as I am when some of my friends are searching for work, feels sometimes like a waste of creative energy. I feel myself rather hollowed out at work, and I don't have the leisure as I did at the television production job to borrow moments and write while there.

So here I am. And there you are. And we wait.

J