Waiting, waiting, waiting…

I HATE WAITING!!!

I’m rubbish at it. Psychologically unequipped (Inequipped? Ill-equipped? Crap?) at it.

Currently waiting for some possible progress with my debut novel. And it’s killing me. I feel it safe to say that getting a publishing deal if (when, dammit…) it ever happens will be a life-changing event. For the better, although the idea of being under contract to finish a book by a contractually-agreed date rather than “enjoying” the luxury of stumbling from creative crisis to creative crisis and curling up in a corner with thumb inserted firmly into mouth when the muse doesn’t feel like playing with me.

It’s the impotence that kills me. Nowt I can do but wait. And then wait some more. And then carry on waiting. My writing career in someone else’s hands. Self-publishing is calling to me like a siren luring me to crash and drown on the rocks of literary hubris. (Yes, I know, I disappeared up my own literary arse for a second, there.) But the prospect of having an agent to look after my interests (that part already done, at least) and a publisher to help me make my books the bestest they can be, is too tempting to really consider going it alone.

But the waiting… (Sobs, wails, blows nose noisily into handy curtain.)

Patience is said to be a virtue. And a card game, obviously. It’s a life-skill I may never learn to master.

xxx