Waiting, waiting, and more waiting. So describes life in the publishing industry. First, you finish a book and send out query letters to a handful of agents, then wait for those responses. After the first batch of rejections, you send off another group and wait, all the while running to the mailbox and checking your inbox a hundred times a day.
Then, oh joy, you get an agent. Finally, the waiting is over! But, alas, not so fast with popping that champagne cork. Now the agent sends the manuscript off to a group of publishers. And you wait for all those responses. And wait some more.
In my case, all I got was a bunch of "thanks but no thanks" answers after waiting for weeks. I'm surprised my mouse still works, considering how often I clicked on the "Check Mail" icon during that period.
Now, I've finished my latest manuscript and sent it off to my agent for review. She promptly responded that she'd read it as soon as possible and send comments. In the meantime I would write that dreaded synopsis.
And I did. After I spent the first two days checking my inbox, of course. Just in case my agent stayed up all night reviewing my book. Turns out I haven't gotten any more patient about all that waiting.
After the second day with no response, I finally admitted I needed to focus on my synopsis. But now it's done, along with the summaries of the other two books. And I still haven't heard from my agent, three weeks and two days later (but who's counting?). I'm well aware that my agent hasn't contacted me because every time I talk to my mom, she invariably asks if I've heard anything from her. Nope, I say. Well, why not, she wants to know. Doesn't my agent like me anymore? Of course my agent likes me. She's probably just focusing on her published clients, the ones who make her money. At least that's what I'd be doing. Send those unpublished clients to the back of the line.
And so I sit here waiting, throwing myself the occasional pity party at how I've been abandoned by the world, then lecturing myself on being so impatient. And ridiculous. Surely she'll respond one of these days. Perhaps her email is waiting in my inbox as I type this. It's been at least three minutes since the last time I looked. I'd better go check. Then I can break out the confetti for another pity party.