This is the time I hate most. The waiting game. One book in with the editor, having its i’s dotted and its quotes cross checked ready for delivery to the book shelves and the media scrutiny in September, and the other currently in the post from agent to publishers.
It should be the best time; the hard stuff is over, the sun is shining. I could even go and ride one of the horses if my ankle didn’t still ache from falling off the back deck last month with an armful of washing. My protestant work ethic eats away at me, demanding that I create more opportunities to pay the mortgage (we’ve just bought a house with a frighteningly large one), and so I go to meet people in cafes to talk about ideas and all the while wish I could find some teensy bit of hedonism to be able to chuck it all in, let the mobile take the calls and play tennis. Or take the dog for a walk. Instead I sit here, computer speakers turned up for the toll of the email alert, and check the American spam as it begins to roll into my hot and stuffy afternoon.
The kids will be home soon. That’ll distract me. That’s a worthwhile thing to do. It doesn’t pay the mortgage, but it’s useful. Time ticks. Email tolls. Energy festers.