I just sent the manuscript off to my agent-in-waiting. God, I am petrified. I seriously can no longer tell whether the book is a masterpiece or a piece of shit. I've added and subtracted so much, it's the same book but entirely different. I am so scared. If he decides, again, to pass, I'm not sure what to do next. I have no back-up plan. Every egg I've got is in this little basket. Please do send fairy dust and a little voodoo directed toward New York City where my novel sits and waits in the agent's in-box.
The girls are climbing the walls; I've been at the computer for a week solid. I'm a terrible mother. Kicky is disciplining Esmee as I write. When she starts cooking the meals I should probably worry...
Unfortunately, there is no rest in sight. I've taken on a freelance job writing a newsletter for a laboratory supply company. Am I insane? Also, my classes are in workshop mode, so I am either reading or critiquing continuously from now until May.
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