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?