A 300 plus page novel waiting for an agent. A second novel in the works waiting for its literary composer to help it take shape, to bring it to life. A dilly-dallier. A procrastinator. A weaver of words, too terrified that the tapestry she is creating will not be worthy of display. An artist waiting for everything to unravel.
Even now, as I write this post, I am aware that I have , if only semi-consciously, been devising means by which I can delay my own creativity. What book would I like to read next? What bills need to be paid? What recipe should I try for the pork roast I purchased for dinner next week? Things that are so far away from where I really long to be. Anything, it would seem, to avoid the task at hand.
Even with the novel I have already completed, I have successfully managed to avoid sending queries to any other agents beyond the handful to whom I’ve already submitted. Perhaps I am trying to elude any further rejection. But, I am also avoiding any possibility of future acceptance in the process.
Fear. Gripping and paralizing. Trepidation preventing me from becoming who I know I am meant to be.