I think I had this awesome post planned out about wiregrass and self-doubt, about how they snake their tendrils through the darkness and silently strangle everything they touch, but I can hardly string words together.
This morning, I open my email and find a message from an agent who wants to see the first fifty pages of my book.
My kids want to know why I am screaming and jumping around the house. I babble something incoherent about dreams and explain the publishing industry to my seven-year-old in about thirty breathless and incoherent seconds. He stares, and then smiles. He doesn’t get the nuances of queries and submissions, but he knows about dreams.
I call my husband. He’s not in his office yet.
I call my parents. My mom sounds groggy but excited. She advises me to parade around the house via the furniture. This is now definitely on today’s agenda.
I call my husband again. He has to ask me to repeat what I just said. Turns out those spaces between words are there for a reason.
This isn’t The Dream–not yet. But it is possibility, which in some ways feels even more wonderful.
Wiregrass? What wiregrass?