I sit where it all began, in my bed. The place where I was pushed by a friend to write nearly a year ago when I was paralyzed by the loss of my step-dad. I started to write that night and every night after for well over a week, further inspired by the prednisone I took for my bronchitis. Then I left the story to blend and simmer for a bit. Every so often I’d come back to see how it was doing, tweaking, adding, and fixing. Then, after the push from a friend or two, I picked it up near Thanksgiving and really, seriously got to work, finishing the final details in January and February after several trusted people gave me feedback.
This is my first submission, and that’s huge to me. I’m scared. I don’t know how I’ll be received, but I’m much like my character, Thomas, at the moment. I’m not sure if I’ll be picked up or not, but I know I’ve done my best. And even if I don’t get published by this company, I know I can do this.
I do a few cheesy things. I’m a romance writer, afterall. I put on a pair of jeans I inherited from an editor friend of mine; I see them as good luck for all the changes I’ve made. I wear my favorite shirt. I make sure I’m sitting on my bed where this all started, and I ensure I’m alone. Writing is a solitary process and submitting is too. Probably more so.
So I take a last sip of wine, finally type the address of the publishing company in the email, and hit send.
And now I wait.