Last night I sent novel #3 to Agent Simon.

I am already obsessively checking emails for his reaction, although I tell myself not to be so cocky – if he’s read it so quickly, it must be quite literally unputdownable. And he clearly hasn’t read it because he hasn’t emailed me yet, so it must be putdownable.

Or worse. Unreadable.

He probably thinks it’s unreadable.

But then again, he probably hasn’t even looked at it yet. He’s a busy man. My little novel is of no importance. Who am I to think he’s found a window in his busy schedule for my useless little shit piece of writing?

I’ll just go and see if there are any web design jobs going. Or perhaps bar work.

Listen, teenagers. Your crushes and waiting for the phone to ring (do you still wait for the phone to ring, or is it a DM or a FB PM?) have nothing on a neurotic author waiting for her agent’s response to her novel.

NOTHING.