When I was 8, I asked God to help my dad find a wife. Dad did find a wife. And she proceeded to turn our lives upside down with her madness and cruelty. When I was in high school, I tried to make this deal with God, “I don’t care if I can’t get a boyfriend, but could I please go to Prom?” I ended up with no boyfriend and no Prom and the boy who said he’d take me decided not to because–and this is a quote–“I wanted to take someone who will impress my friends.”
My list of such stories is long. And after a while I figured the lesson was something along the lines of–stop asking for stuff. (And that when I didn’t get what I wanted, I was lucky.)
So I try really hard not to pray or wish for an agent, publication, or to hobnob with Neil Gaiman and Audrey Niffenegger because if I had any of these wishes answered that way, well, it would end in tears.
I keep working. Writing. Biting my tongue when the urge to wish stirs in my heart. But I slip up. All these wishing scars and still I find myself in a bookstore wishing…
Is there such a thing as a wishaholic?
Anyway, an agent has asked to see more pages. Consider how much time it takes to read/edit pages, get an agent, get a publisher, get a publication date, get into stores, and I figure that I could conceivably have a novel reach bookstores in time to see the bookstores collapse. And don’t talk to me about ebooks.
There a hundred good things about ebooks. I know. But I didn’t grow up wishing–yes, I said it–for people to turn on a computer and see my book. The digital world is just so much ether, so much nothing to hold on to. Everything one stroke away from the delete key.
A book published only online would be fine. That would be okay. Sure. It is better than nothing. And having a romance strictly online is better than nothing. With a webcam it’s like you’re in the same room! Except, of course, it isn’t.
Then again, the things I’ve wished for don’t exactly work out anyway.
Do you believe in wishing?