(Edit: this is a repost from June)
Lately, with the help of a friend, I’ve been immersed in the timeline of getting published traditionally (I previously self-published). She emailed me a link for a literary agent last night and I’ve been reading the content voraciously. And I do mean “voraciously”.
While I’ve been reading, I’ve been fighting the feelings of jealousy, inferiority, disappointment, impatience, uncertainty and anxiety. Each feeling felt more than once. Seriously, the agent’s website has such content to cause these emotions.
I like my book, and my family likes my book, but who says my book really is any good? You know how it goes. You think you can sing, but when you do, any glass objects around you find ways to digress into particles. Or, your mother tells you you’re beautiful/handsome but the lack of stalkers says otherwise. Or, you don’t think you’re threatening, but the common sight of snipers on rooftops everywhere you go insinuates different things. (I could go on) I’m in that boat.
I wrote my comedic novel over a period of two and half years. It began when I was working as a receptionist. My mind hadn’t become the calm, empty thing it is now. I was constantly bombarded by thoughts about this and that situation and anxious about them or possible catastophes. It was a bad year for my brain. Anyway, somehow, I began thinking of things I couldn’t do well (there are so many things) and I believe I was trying to give myself a pep talk. It was pitiful, really. The pep talk involved flashbacks to when I learned to ride a bicycle. I learned at 10 years old. I was embarrassed for many years that it took me so long to learn (that really is the story of my life). But I learned in a flash and turned into the best cyclist ever. In the midst of these musings, the words of a past math instructor flitted across the caverns of my mind: “She’s not too swift, but when the light bulb comes on, you’ll know!“. These words were said to my father which were in turn related to me. Heat filled my cheeks. I am a slow learner, but I’m generally brilliant at whatever my brain manages to stick its dull claws into. It just takes some…time.
Anywho, the pep talk may have involved mental tear shedding and remembering that I too am somebody, or some such neurotic drivel. Well, I thought about how long it took me to learn to ride a bicycle and figured the memory isn’t really all that bad when you’re finally an adult. But what if someone never learned to ride a bike until he/she were in his/her thirties?? What if they hid it like some guilty habit? Perfect comedy.
Thus, my “book” was born. I was advised by both siblings to publish it (which was never my intention), and so now look at the mess I’m in!