The Hardest Part

I was with her earlier today, at my day job - the REAL one. She's ten years old, belongs to a customer. Her name is Maya. We were discussing the virtue of patience.
"It's my birthday in 8 months, 2 weeks and 3 days," she said in between serious licks of a cherry blow pop.
I was immediately impressed with her mathematical ability.
"I can't wait," she added. "Then I can get my ears pierced."
So 11 had its understandable appeal. The 8 months, 2 weeks and 3 days did not. Also understandable.
"That's cool," I told her. "It'll be here before you know it."
"Not true," she countered, "It's like a million, trillion months from now."
I was reminded then of her true age and her less than stellar math prowess.
Yet, I get it. When we're waiting for something to happen, something we want so badly, suddenly regular time morphs into dog years. One equals seven. It's the math of the impatient.
I'm waiting too. For a yes. For a contract. For a validation. For Life - Part Two to commence.
It's dog years - big time.
Tom Petty said it best. It's the hardest part. The waiting.
Maya and I couldn't agree more.

The Road Traveled in Spite of it All

I've heard it said that the road to stardom is littered with broken dreams (and equally offensive debris.) So what about the road to publication? Ask anyone who has traveled it. It's a veritable minefield. You have your potholes, your detours, the four revision pile-up, overturned queries and major agent jams. Red lights? You can't even imagine. Stop signs? You'll be yielding more than you care to. I'll screech to a halt here. You get the point. There's surely no need to beat an analogy to a bloody (annoying) pulp.
Simply stated - it ain't easy.
What's a girl with writing in her veins to do?
I've trunked the idea more than once. Can't happen. Won't happen. The odds are stacked against me. Why bother?
The bigger question is, why not?
After all, what's life without a little frustration, heartache, yearning, begging, pleading, pacing and hysteria?
Regardless of all the above, people write because they have to. It goes, eat, drink, sleep, breathe, write. It isn't optional. It what we do in spite of our better judgement, in spite of the littered road and in spite of it all.

Hmmm...

So I'm trying this blog stuff on for size. As of this minute it feels like an itchy wool sweater two sizes too small and creeping up my neck. (Aack - it's getting harder and harder to breathe...)
Here's hoping I'll get the hang of it real soon.
PS - That profile picture is of my baby. Isn't she the cutest? Way more attractive than I am so she'll do for now.
Test, test this is only a test. In the event of an actual emergency you will be notified as to which blog to follow.