Last night, I was ecstatic.  This morning, desolate.

After working through the holiday weekend, around midnight last night I finally finished both projects that I had promised for today and emailed them to their destinations.  I figured that, by this morning when I woke up, there would be praises in my email box and flowers at the door.  (My mother, to her dying day, believed the Hollywood myth of the rich and famous writer and also believed that, because I have had a few books published, that I was among them.  Repeated showings of Christmas in Connecticut could not dissuade her of this, even though the film clearly shows Barbara Stanwyck writing of her fictitious farm in Connecticut while sitting at her typewriter in her hovel in New York.  And note that, while Christmas in Connecticut does its best to battle the myth of the rich writer, it actually helps support the myth of the rich architect.  Something I know something about, as I am married to one.  Putting a writer and an architect together does not great wealth create.  The only thing we got right was the Connecticut part.)

Finally, just after lunch, I got one email.  This one from my agent, who had wanted and needed that book proposal right after Labor Day.  Seems that he forgot to tell me that he is off to Paris for the week and will be back on the fourteenth.  (This only creates the myth of the rich agent in my mind.  Although he lives in a Penthouse–from what I hear, I have never been invited there in all these years–so perhaps the agent part isn’t a myth after all.)  Anyway, he said all the nice things about how great it was to see the proposal competed, blah, blah, blah, but I now have a week to wait until I get a response.

Could be worse.  Still haven’t heard from the other guy, the editor of an online journal with whom I may soon be working.  (And thus create the myth of the rich and famous online journalist.)  More on that as it develops.

 

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