So while we sit here in limbo waiting for a call to tell us we can finally go and buy our new house — we’re already a day past the day we were supposed to move, and at the moment, things aren’t looking good for the adjusted date of next Monday, either — I get an e-mail.
Mostly the e-mails coming in that don’t get filtered out are from our realtor, and those are worth reading right away. So I scurry over to read it.
But it’s nothing so pressing. Just another rejection letter on my first novel. My fifth letter — not that I’m keeping count. (Officially. If you count non-responses, that number is more like ten.) (And I’m totally keeping count. What else can you do?)
So between delays, and rejections, and fireworks scaring the hell out of my dog, and said dog, two days later and for no apparent reason, destroying our mattress pad — you know, because we have it sitting on the floor waiting to be moved — this week is one that, were it served to me on a dinner plate, I would return to the kitchen and head for the exit.
This is all a sign that things are about to turn around, right? It’s all going to mean something, right? We’re not going to just keep getting pummeled, literally and figuratively, forever, right?