Waiting to hear back has brought out my worst insecurities, taking on the characteristics of a bad break-up. I alternate between extremes of bungee-jumping off anxiety peak highs and delayed reaction lows; everything e x a g g e r a t e d l y slow.
Much like a break-up, there have been moments of cringe-worthy masochism. I pass the time chipping away at my confidence, obsessing over every flaw, every imperfect detail. At all hours of the day, I find myself wondering if the agent is thinking of me. Hoping they aren’t reading other people’s novels. Hoping they don’t meet someone else they like more. What would I do if they fould someone sleeker, more experienced and polished?
All that’s left are the 3:00am phone calls. I delve into my text with a critical eye, reading through the passages and jumping feet first on anything that comes off as weak. There. See? Who says I’m not capable of killing off my own babies? You said you hated my overwrought prose. My sentimental little moments. My clever little annoying sentences. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, my ass. I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone!
During my moments of sanity, I labour over the structure. I colour code the sections that need work. I stay up until dawn creating computerised index cards to replace the old ones. I spend hours painstakingly editing, cataloguing, raking through scenes and chapters and character inconsistencies. I begin to see the cracks. Where we went wrong. I know what I can do to fix things, make them better for the next time. Is it too late for us? It can’t be. I didn’t come off in the best light. In a moment of vulnerability and haste, I allowed you to see me unshaped, flawed. Vadar removing his mask (horror, horror). Things have been read, I can’t take that back. But one day soon, I’ll be stronger, more consistent. Then, you will love me again.