Itchy Trigger Finger. Do you ever get that? That urge to press “SEND” that cannot be denied.
I do. I did. I maybe shouldn’t have.
See, I finished the revision of my manuscript, the one about which my agent said, “Hey…this is really ambitious…” which, as we all know, is code for, “Oh, god.”
Okay, okay, I thought. I'm not going to let that break me, so after a few days of turning that over in my mind (ie, worrying it to death) I took another look. She was right. It needed work. She said it needed more depth and stuff. Fine. It did. So what?
I cheerfully (fake cheerful, actually) promised to take another look, this time sans rose-colored glasses. I told her I would revise it. And I did. I revised the heck out of it.
But now I’m not sure I made it any better. Oh, sure. I made it LOOOOONGER. But better? Eh…we’ll have to see.
Did that stop me from hitting SEND. Nope. Not me. Why reflect when I can act, right? RIGHT?
(pause for crying and chocolate)
So now it’s gone. And , sure enough, two hours after hitting that dreaded SEND button, I thought, “Oh, man…I could have made Chapter 48 better! Or even deleted it!” (Yes, there are at LEAST 48 chapters. Ambitious, you say? Oh, god, I say.)
But now it’s too late. The itchy trigger finger got the better of me. It’s off into the ether and when she opens that Word document tomorrow morning, I hope she is floored by the mastery of the words and scope of the storytelling, and not the sheer size of the document she must plow through.
And now there’s nothing left for me to do but wait. And I will…on pins and needles.
In the meantime, however, I’m going to go chop off a finger.