If you’re not a writer seeking publication, you won’t know how this feels. But I’ve begun querying a new project. This is my third time doing this in six years of writing and self-publishing. Fourteen days ago I received four requests for manuscripts from various agents. For the first time ever, my queries produced movement toward the next step. Fourteen days ago I leapt for joy. For about five minutes. And then the waiting began.

This. Is my story.

I check my inbox every fifteen minutes or so. I don’t mean to. I tell myself that I must accept that which I cannot control, and that I should move forward with other projects. But still, I gaze in despair at the never ending flow of crap I don’t care about coming through my inbox. Because the one thing I do care about…it never comes. It never, ever comes.

I try to write. They say to keep writing. To send out your queries and then forget about them and power forward. I’ve written eight novels so far, I can write another. Right?

I struggle to remember the last time I showered. Or ate a salad. My diet seems to be mostly liquid, lately. This is probably contributing to the vicious cycle of me not producing anymore work. But how can I possibly overcome this despair when my fate isn’t even in my own hands?

To my children, friends, and family, I just want to say I’m sorry. Mommy isn’t really a depressed alcoholic. This too shall pass. And I know it’s hard to accept and hard to forigive, but I have to just ask of you…beg of you…please…just love me anyway. Please.

I hope when I report back it will be with definitive news, one way or the other. I’ll never stop trying. I’ll never give up. If these requests come back as rejections, I will survive and I will come back even stronger. Until then…