I’ve spent a year and a half working on this novel, stealing time on the weekends or afterwork or using vacation time to pluck away. I’m in it now; there’s no turning back. I have days when I’m totally and ecstatically delusional about the future success of the book and weeks when I wonder what will ever become of this book.
From what I understand, unless I’m that one in a qua-trillion (is that a word?) person who gets a mega-deal, I’ll be lucky if I get a few thousand dollars as an advance. Assuming anybody wants to publish it. If that one-in-a-qua-trillion thing comes my way, it will be in the form of a freak and deadly accident. You know? I’ll be the one being dragged around the horse track by my neck because my long earrings got stuck in the bridle. Hell, I don’t even know if “bridle” is a thing on a horse. How can I possibly write a book with my limited worldly knowledge?
Okay, let me be clear. I can write a book. But will it be any good? I hope so. I hope this is a good use of my time. I don’t want to have my son looking over my dead body one day saying, “Poor mom. Remember the time she wrote that book?” Snicker Snicker Snicker.
So there it is. Self-doubt on a big fucking platter for the world to see. Ugh. I guess I’ll go write something now.