In the Bones

I have the kind of fatigue right now that feels like it is leaking out of my bones.

I need to go hook up a nice plump vein to a pot of coffee and clear the cobwebs.

In the past, when I've heard writers liken the writing of a book to birthing a child I scoffed. I've done my share of birthing, and I just thought it was a weak metaphor.

Not anymore. I've been working for months on a young adult novel, and I feel like I am in the 42nd week with preeclampsia. I started sending out queries to the agents in New York who accept email submissions and I have been amazed with the swiftness of the responses. I have been receiving so many rejections that when I get one that isn't a form letter I feel touched.

Until yesterday. An agent from a house I really like sent me an email asking for the first fifty pages of the book. So I polished the first fifty as best I could and shot it off to her around 1:00 am today.

That was my water breaking.

Now, I am faced with the rest of the book. I need to get this baby ready for the real world on the off chance (and I do mean off; odds are she'll thank me for my time and "pass on the project") she wants the entire book.

Heavy breathing isn't helping much. I hope this doesn't jinx things.