The past week has been a whirlwind of emotion. I still wake up every day with a smile on my face when I realize I have a literary agent. As I've said before, it's not the end of the road, but the beginning of a different path on that road. Yes, I know there is hard work ahead.
I've spent much of the past week coming to terms with what it means to get closer to a dream. It's a scary thing--getting what you want.
Now I need to take a deep breath, roll up my sleeves, and get back to writing. It's time to chop wood and carry water, if only in a metaphorical sense. The work of writing is no different today than it was a week ago, before 'the call'. No different than it was six months ago or five years ago when this madness began.
It's still about sitting down, focusing, and harnessing imagination. Writing one word, one page, one scene at a time. Starting at the beginning and continuing day by day until the end.
And there's still the ordinary work of a life--laundry, preparing meals, helping kids iwth homework, walking the dog. None of that changes either. So I must make peace with my to do list and stay in the moment, even as I do the most mundane of things.
Off to chop wood and carry water.