I spent another night awake on the couch, tossing and turning, with intermittent tears and pacing through the living room. At 3:30am I finally fell asleep with my iPhone in hand, thinking about the feedback I’d gotten from August.

It had taken me hours to open his email. I spent the evening circling the screen, gnawing on a fingernail and the inside of my cheek. I was sure he hated the manuscript. That the work was unreadable, an unholy mess, and he was sending me back to the drawing board two chapters in. I looked at his name, still in bold font. Took a bath, fluffed my pillows, sat down in front of the computer and got up and stared at it from across the room. Finally I decided any response would have to be better than the ones I was conjuring.

I opened the email and started to cry.

It was better. It was much, much better. So good that I spent the night awake, thinking about it, allowing myself for the first time to believe in the possibility of something coming from all this work, that the long lonely hours of writing have not been in vain. My book won’t end up in a drawer. Whether it lands me an agent or finds its way to a bookshelf is to some extent out of my hands, but what I do know is that it’s good enough to share.

My book is alive!

How do you handle the good things?


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