Mountains, Molehills and bus rides.

I know it only takes the one, but what if the one doesn’t come? I’m feeling the fear and finding it hard to write anyway.

In two weeks time, half term will be over and I should be starting book four. Book three resides in the slush of my favourite agents and one way to push it through to the next stages, would be to have another option in the pipeline. But having been thus far rejected by three of my preferred agents, only one inviting me to send in the full to which I received a standard, copy and pasted no, I find I am swamped in scared. Constricted. Dumbstruck. If nobody picks up my third, what’s the point of writing a fourth. Because if nobody reads my third, can I sweat blood again for similar levels of silence?

And yes, that may seem dramatic to you dear reader, but dramatic is sadly, how I feel. I mean, I know with this I’m writing things off before all options are snuffed because truly, it will only take one person to love it for everything to change, but what if…? What if they all say no? What if this time, I effectively take a step back. I targeted agent with this one. And if I don’t hit that, it will feel like this last year, this book, has all been a waste of time. Not to mention the cold hard cash invested in editorial critique. Cash I might better have spent on bags, or shoes, or important stuff my children need. (priorities). If nobody reads it, what is the point?

There’s a bit going on in my life at the moment. Nothing major by reality standards, nothing health, wealth or wellbeing standards, but stuff that matters to me. And maybe life is clouding my judgement but here and now, I feel the fear. I have spent three years focussing on learning and writing and growing, all with the support of a him in doors who takes on all financial responsibility whilst I fanny around like a poor mans Barbara Cartland. But with this latest, I truly, honestly believe I had something special… have something special.

And maybe I do. Maybe there’s still time. But if I don’t, what happens then? Because I don’t know if I can keep going if nobody will ever read what I write. And as I sit beside scribbled post its pretending to be plot points I wonder if I can do it all again, just for me. Because although I write things I’d love to read, I don’t write just for me. I could tell you why I write, but I don’t know that anyone would care. And besides, if I didn’t, where would these people living in my head even go? Geoff… Connie… The 760 from Bingley to Leeds… If I dont write about them who will!?

I hope, come a week on Monday, my fear will have been replaced with vigour and renewed determination. I hope this lull is simply symptomatic of the process. That this blog post will chime with all the others posted into the ether as the unagented, the unpublished offload their woes, and I hope, that I will find words that may make a chapter or two or three and with that will come, eventually, a book. Something that someone, somewhere might want to read. Because otherwise, what IS the point?

Dramatic? Moi? I don’t even know what you mean…


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