It’s difficult to relax. It takes a lot of work. Anything unresolved gnaws and nags. I understand wanting to turn away from the world completely, because waiting, and especially wanting, is so uncomfortable. I suspect these feelings of discomfort once motivated some caveman to kill his dinner. Hunger, that’s what it is.
Last week, I got the call. A negotiation has begun to sell my book, but this week, there is no news, and so I wait for the shoe to drop. But why? When the news is so good, and negotiations probably take time.
I try to keep busy. I write. I’m writing a new book, but I’ve returned to the old. My editor-to-be thinks the third second should be in the present tense, I hear, like the rest of the book. So, I am back in the old book, changing every sentence in the third section. At the end of the day I realize I haven’t heard from my agent, and maybe something is wrong. So I walk Doe and I try to forget it, but can’t. I need to get the call, to hear that all is as it should be, but it doesn’t come. How to stop being the person I am, who worries everything to death, and leans towards disaster? I know the answer, and I do these things, and they help, but when will she call?
Once I waited for phone calls from boys, but now the news is all about the book, the record, my work. Maybe this is a kind of progress. Even if the call never comes, I’ve still got the satisfaction of having done it, and I love doing it. It’s only waiting that kills.