Perhaps it’s the brevity of the month, or perhaps it’s how worn out I’ve been, but February seems to have flown past without a moment to alight. Now, with March rains pattering at our window, I still find myself in the place between stories, and with publishing’s haphazard pace, it remains uncertain when that will change.
Even at my best, I have always had a particularly difficult relationship with time. So perhaps it’s no surprise that these days, while waiting on feedback, while struggling to pace, while trying to find a way forward through bureaucratic esoterica, I’ve been finding life particularly difficult to deal with.
The nature of publishing does nothing to help. However much you may have heard before that traditional timelines are baffling, that an author’s job is always to “hurry up and wait”, that communications in this communication-focused industry can be, for a lack of a better word, inexplicably cryptic — it doesn’t capture the half of it.
So here I am, wandering the woods still. Yet the paths before me remain innumerable, countless stories waiting to be told. If I must wait, then so be it.
I shall wait with busy pen and dreams unceasing.
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