You know what I just figured out about myself? I don't wait very well. In fact I'm as impatient as all get out. And the impatience makes me anxious which drives me nuts which means I'm going to drive every one else nuts with my anxiety.
Now, this is something I have known about myself for years but I'll forget about, or because I've got a thousand other neuroses that rear their ugly heads, it takes a back seat sometimes. But when I'm "in a fishbowl" so to speak, it becomes readily apparent.
Right now, the first three chapters of my book are getting critiqued thanks to a package I bought from Indies Unite for Joshua. This isn't the first time my book has been in the hands of some sort of professional. I mean there was that book contest this year, and that literary agent that one time. But it's the first time I'll get any real feedback from a writing professional, to know that someone is finally paying the book more than a cursory glance and I'll get a real idea of the book's chances out there in the real world.
And I haven't exactly been patient about the process. With the person doing the critique (Who is completely awesome and you should give her books a gander) I've been nothing but polite and understanding. With my husband on the other hand? Based on our conversations that I'm forcing him to have with me pretty frequently, you'd be convinced I've gone to some sort of analysis school. I'm picking apart wording of emails, trying to figure out if a long critique time means anything, If there's something in our email back and forth's that I'm missing. Then I start analyzing myself. Maybe I should have revised the thing again for the millionth time before I sent it off, or spent more time explaining the concept or spent more time on the synopsis, or... and the list goes on from there. And then I bring it back to; Or maybe, just maybe she's really busy and these things take time. (To that last statement I go Pffffhhhhhttttt. It's got to be about me, all MEEEEEE!)
Again, I don't wait well. Outwardly, I convey the very essence of patience, but inwardly? I'm swimming madly in my internal fishbowl like a Beta fish on meth. I ain't good at it. It doesn't look good on me. And it doesn't do much for my husband's sanity either. Thankfully my daughter is of an age that she doesn't care what's going on with me as long as I feed her on time. And believe you me she takes that very seriously. Hell hath no fury like an 8 month old who has to wait for pureed carrots.
Now, if you all will excuse me, I think I'll get back into my internal fishbowl and swim furiously.