I vaguely remember dating and the anxiety over waiting for a phone call after the first date. If the date was good, I’d fixate on how the first kiss was. I’d remember all the sensory sensations of being near him, how his clothes fit his body, his smell, the taste of his mouth, how swollen my lips were after kissing him, how my skin was electrified by a new touch, and then I would wonder, was it the same for him?
Would he call in 3 days or one week? I dated in LA so all bets were off regarding dating callback etiquette. Beautiful girls were everywhere models and actresses literally lined the streets, I was neither. I wasn’t so much into playing games. If I liked someone I liked them a bit too much at first. I was the nicest version of myself. I could take nearly three months for the real me, the moody, ever so slightly bitchy girl to emerge. The one who didn’t want to pamper the new guy. The one who was like, seriously you’re boring me- let’s do something fun. I feel the same anxiety now, as I impatiently wait to hear back from a literary agent.
I’m here now, at my desk thinking of all the busy work I can do to keep my mind off an agent calling, emailing, texting, twittering, anything asking me for more pages, and wanting to represent me. I’m not good at this part. I should keep writing and revising. I should dig in to book 2. Instead, I think about how:
- I need to sort out my taxes.
- I need to go food shopping.
- I need to get my hair colored.
- I’d love a mani.
- I need to clear the clutter off my desk.
- It’s nearly my birthday and I am freaked out about turning 44.
- Gray it is outside.
All these things are weak distractions. I’ve got to refocus. Insert sound of my nails strumming the wood on my desk and the image of me biting the inside of my right lower lip. I can do this. It will happen. Yes I can.