Wish Me Luck

Well… I did it. I finished my novel. Didn’t know I was writing one? Neither did anyone else, except my husband, my one and only reader. He says it’s awesome- it’s his job to say it’s awesome, just as it’s my job to be super interested in hearing him talk about accreting binaries and cataclysmic variables. And I am

It’s time. Time to start querying agents. Time for my small and fragile ego to take an enormous beating. Bring it.

I know odds are not in my favor, but then odds are never in my favor. Ask my best friend, she’ll tell you I have the worst luck of anyone she knows. My bad luck is legendary. I think it’s a good thing. I assume everything in life will be really, really hard, and on that account, I’m rarely wrong. I assume I’ll put up one hell of a fight, then lose, but I’m still all fired up to get moving.

I think people should do the things they’ve always wanted to do- whether it’s writing a book, learning to paint, starting your own small business, going back to college- anything. I’ve always been about going big or going home. Why have one baby when you can have twins? Why live in a cool, convenient city full of reasonable people when you could live in a jungle on a remote island, surrounded by whackjobs?

In this instance, the assumed failure doesn’t scare me. What could I have done instead during the nights spent writing my book? I could have caught up on my sleep, or watched TV. I can do both these things when I’m dead. Heaven is a feather bed and around the clock TiVo. But while I’m here…