I know I’m not the first to say that the hardest part about writing is the waiting. It’s in the wishing. It’s sending the work away, far from your heart, and hoping something for it.
I recently sent a lot of work out to various people and publications. When I’m in that space of waiting, I always work on other projects, throw myself into the next something, pretend I don’t care about the words that are out of my hands.
I pretend I know to expect nothing. I pretend I know the watched pot. I pretend I understand that the business is subjective. I pretend it doesn’t matter whether the work is loved or hated, whether it becomes an almost, or a not-quite, or an if-this-then-maybe.
I pretend. It’s a game I have played so many times, you would think, you would think, I would be very good at it.