Just write the damn thing.
I've been feeling deflated since this afternoon's agent pitch session.
I could tell within the first minute that the editor wasn't hooked.
"You have your angle," he said. "Now you need to think about how you want to structure the story."
I have thought about structure, I wanted to say. I've spent the past two years mired in structure. But before I could, the organizer shouted that our five minutes was up, and began hurrying everyone out the door.
I left the agent with my cover letter and two chapters that I realized, with sudden sinking clarity, would just confuse him further. I hadn't gotten the chance to tell him about the context. That one chapter was told through my point of view and the second was told through my mother's.
It was a long shot anyway.
I overheard a writer on my walk to the parking garage saying: "You always feel your entire identity hinges on this next thing."
Part of my disappointment stems from the realization about how much work remains to be done. I have to stop obsessing over perfection. I have to do the research that's been scaring me for so long. I have to take my own advice.
But first, I have to go to bed.