Burnt to a Crisp

Hello Reader.  First a bit of news: I sent out three query letters today.  Exciting?  No, not at all.  It's more a mixture of overwhelming fear and anxiety boiling over into the region of calm that suppresses a wild and intense need to yell and scream out of delirium.  So, on to who I sent these letters to!

Barer Literary: She's known for being incredibly intimate with her authors, and she knows her way around the publishing industry.  Plus, just based on the few interviews I've read with her, she is one of the most passionate literary agents out there.

Meredith Bernstein Literary: Not much has been said about her but she's old school, which is something that I absolutely gravitate towards.  She represents (kind of) what I'm writing so I decided to give it a shot.

Castiglia Literary Agency: Honestly, I've been using Writer's Market 2009 to inform my decisions about who I should send my queries out to.  Castiglia sort've represents what I'm putting out, so I sent out a letter.

I'm really hoping something comes out of these.  If not, well, I'm not going to cry because I've got 30 other literary agents on a nice little list of mine who are going to be bothered by me.  I wish I had more, because there are so many of them out there!  But I can't really spend too much more time fiddling around with my thumbs waiting for this opportunity to plant itself in my lap.  I'm going after this, whether I feel uncomfortable or not.

Which is the odd thing.  I'm usually extremely-passionate-to-the-point-that-I'm-feeling-nauseous about things like this.  I'm not at all nauseous about this.  I'm more nervous and excited and...well, read above.  But I'm not killing myself over it.  Is it because I don't want this enough?  How could I not?  This has been a part of me since I was a child, I can't remember when it wasn't.  This is my life, how could I not be excited for it?

And when I was asking myself these questions, I realized something.  This novel, this idea, this legend I've developed in my head using my overactive imagination truly is my life.  This is who I am, the very essence of my soul, my existence delineated and crammed into the pages of the novel I've written and those I hope to write.  Briok Cwartel's story is my own, and my story is his.  I can't be nauseous and I can't ache for something that is already existing and a part of me.

I think that's been the missing piece in all I've done concerning this book.  I've never had peace of mind, never truly believed I could be published.  And I don't need that when Briok's legend is already published, via my own existence.  He is already here, living and breathing and fighting destiny trying to make his mark on the world.  He's just doing all of those things under a pseudonym: my own name.

Thinking over this, realizing this, and fermenting it in my head for the past dozen or so hours has opened my eyes.  I don't need accolades, I don't need popularity, I DON'T EVEN NEED THIS TO BE PUBLISHED.  Those would be fantastic to have, and my gratitude would be without limit.  Yet I've found a spot in my journey with this book that's let me see it not just as a novel, but as my journey on this Earth too, and that's damn well good enough.  I love this story, I love the grandeur it has given my life.  It's my escape, my wellspring of calm and my constant companion.  It will not go unheard, I know it won't.  But now, even if it does, I'll still be happy.  Until next time then.