Today I stood at my window, and looked out, pondering the universe while looking at my watery reflection . Then I leaned my head and sniffed my armpit. Everything seemed fine, but I was worried that maybe I smelled like onions. Or maybe I’m just weird. I returned to pondering my reflection in the glass. I looked normal enough. Whatever. Surely, today they’d call. Because, it’s just like that dude in those Saturday Night Live sketches used to affirm “I’m good enough, I’m strong enough, and gosh darn it, people like me” (even if I smell like onions).
Then Kealoha came downstairs and said: “Tanya, what the fuck are you doing?” Not in a mean way, mind you. In a soft and gentle and loving way.
Here’s why I was staring at myself: last month, a publisher read the first two chapters of my memoir “Popsicle Toes” and requested the whole manuscript. But it’s been over a month and I haven’t heard anything yet. And then last week, I had a speed dating session where I met five major publishers in audiobooks who all professed to find my narration really attractive and gave me their cards. I have followed up with all the publishers (one for my book and five for audio/narration work for other people’s work). I composed emails that I hope made me seem witty, carefree, professional, totally sane, totally reliable and unbelievably talented. And now…now it’s just a waiting game.
And I’m having flashbacks to my single days where I questioned everything I’ve ever said or done on a date, and tried to read into the dude’s perspective. “He said he liked me and I’m not like anyone he’s ever met so does that mean he’s interested in me, or does that mean he thinks I’m schizophrenic? I mean, does he like me or is he just being nice? And why did he breathe when he said…”
Now it’s the same thing, only I’m questioning my talent and how long do I wait before I contact the publishers again, and if I email them again, will I come off as creepy and pushy…but if I don’t email them again then maybe I’m not present in their mind and, dammit, something or someone smells like onions here and I’m going insane, but I’m totally able to handle all of this and why, why, WHY don’t they want me? Aren’t I good enough? Huh? HUH?
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
I’m trying to remind myself that if they’re really, really interested in me, they’ll contact me. I mean, Kealoha filled out an application to date me so that proves something, right? Except, it took him fifteen years to get to that point, and I really don’t want to wait fifteen years to get my book published or to get a recording gig with another publisher.
It’s time for a big ol glass of wine and to stare out the window again. If it were raining, it’d be even better. I think I’ll make faces like I’m trapped and trying to get out, just to keep the neighbors’ guessing. It will keep me from obsessing over when, or IF, my phone is ever going to ring.
(But they wouldn’t give me a business card if they weren’t interested, right? Right?)