This morning I cut my hair. Sloppily. I grabbed the scissors, stood on the couch so I could see the big mirror, and just chopped. I may have cut off more than I meant to, but my hair was long to begin with, so not a big deal. And to be honest? If it looks crooked, I don’t care.
I’ve become very contemplative since yesterday’s post. I just don’t feel happy now—even if I’m forcing a smile at work, down deep in there where work people don’t see I’m feeling pretty hopeless. I want it to go away.
Now I am here at my morning writing spot. A dapper old guy sits nearby, blacking his dress shoes. On the other side, a young man studies for the MCAT. I walked outside this morning to flurries and a light dusting of snow—a white sheet draped over the sidewalk and street, not yet walked on and ruined. There’s a hopeful air here. A loud man just asked me for a quarter. He’s asking everyone—someone will give him one.
One year ago today:
“Dear Nova, I did finally finish your novel, and I’m sorry that, in the end, I’m not offering to represent it. I found your writing extremely involving, and I really did care about the characters and need to see the story through to the end. But somewhere around p.150 the story came apart for me. [Details cut.] I am sorry not to be writing with better news. I think you are a wonderful story teller and, should you still be searching for an agent, I would be happy to read any future work. I hope very good things happen to your novel (which I will return under separate cover).”
Has it taken me a full year to see something hopeful in that?
I’d like to cut out the blah part of my life and just get to the good stuff. If only I could use the scissors! The thing is, I know I have to work through it. And I will. I will. I will. I just wish the work would go faster.