On Being Small

Hello again. We got back from Half Moon Bay on Saturday night and I am still in recovery mode. Jack is trying to adjust to the time zone (as am I - couldn't fall asleep till nearly midnight last night) and I am trying to get my life back in working order. It was great seeing friends and family (17 of us in San Francisco, all trying to get on a single bus to Chinatown - good times!) and I really enjoyed the cooler weather, but it's nice to get back to work. Work being my actual job, as well as the pursuit of publishing. The agent did get back to me but had no constructive criticism, CC (a well-known author who had sort of taken me under her wing) has apparently decided she hates me, and my "dream agent" sent a rejection almost immediately. So, where to now? My mom's cousin, a wonderfully kind and generous man, has offered to send my manuscript to his agent at William Morris, so we'll see if they have any words of advice (I'm certainly not expecting representation). Meanwhile, I am eager to get to work on the new book, but I am going to have to do some serious multi-tasking if that's ever going to happen. I also need to compile a list of possible agents and start querying, despite CC's opinion that if I do that, I will be rejected all around.
One of the great things about the weather in HMB was the running. Sarah and I ran 10.6 miles last Sunday with Kim and her friend Christine, which was not difficult because it was so nice and cool. Then I came home to 110 degree heat and wanted to shoot myself. But, with such wonderful running weather, I was able to sort of daydream as I ran, rather than focus on how miserable I felt. As I ran, I started thinking about my book (natch) and the more I thought about it, the more frustrated and upset I got (running and crying is NOT easy), which made me run faster and harder, which was good in and of itself, but not the point. The point is, I started to think about my life and why I want this book published so badly and what it would mean to me. And I realized that right now my life feels... SMALL. I feel insignificant and unimportant, and it's not that I want to be famous or that I think being an author will make me more important as a person, but I do feel like it would give me a purpose and fulfill me on a level that is currently unfulfilled. It's not that I don't love being a mom or think that it's not a big and important job (what could be more important than raising a human being?), but there is the (somewhat) intellectual side of me that always dreamed of having a career, and since it doesn't look like I'm going to have a traditional career at this point (I'm 30 and have never held a job longer than a year and a half), becoming an author would mean that I did SOMETHING with my education and hard work. Maybe it's because I'm surrounded by highly successful people like Sarah and John...I don't know... I just know that I want more out of life. And I feel like I've done the work and put in the time and I've suffered the criticism and fallen down and pushed myself back up, and now it's my turn! 7 months have passed since Jack was born and I don't feel any closer to my goal, but I'm going to keep trying, because despite how dejected I feel most of the time, I just can't seem to quit.
Speaking of Jack, the little nugget is getting seriously frustrated trying to figure out this crawling thing, so I'd better get back to my number 1 job as Mommy. TTFN.