More Like a Speeding Truck . . .

My good friend SFCatty blogged today about how submitting her work makes her feel like the Sword of Damocles is handing over her head (Cue the song Rocky sings in Rocky Horror Picture Show)

For me, it is not so much like something over me that could fail — because that carries with it the implication that, hey, maybe it won’t fail. But when I submit, I feel more like I am one of those kids who saw the football movie and went out to lay down on the divider line on the highway. It isn’t so much a question of whether the truck will hit me, but when.
All week I have been madly checking the old email, checking my blackberry for missed calls, even checking twitter to see if one of the recipients has said something dismissive of an historical — because I know the dismissal is coming. Just a question of when.
So then the question becomes — “Why?” Why do I still write? Why do I lay awake at night trying to figure just how the Marquess greets Lady Anne the morning after the wedding night, when he never showed up in her chamber? I mean, what’s the point?
The only point I can think of is that I like it. No, not the rejections. Not the wildly trying to get a MS perfect so that someone can tell me it isn’t good enough.
I have to write because, dammit, the Marquess and Lady Anne are depending on me. They want me to figure out how it all happened and write it down. As masochistic as the whole submission process is, I like the writing. I like my characters. I want them to be alive, at least for me.
And maybe, God willing, someday for all you y’all, too.


One response to “More Like a Speeding Truck . . .

  1. I hope so. For you. I wrestled that sword from above my head and banished it to the Lady in the Lake- oh, wait- that would be Excalibur, right? Anyway, I’m glad you’re still gonna be a masochist. I’m not!

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