Man, it's been a while. A year, it seems, or maybe more. I can tell because I'm twitchy, on edge. My skin is crawling; my thoughts are scattered.
Did I say a year? Feels like a freakin' decade.
I stop and check. It's been less than fifty days. That can't be right, can it? But it is. Less than fifty days since my last acceptance. And that last one was a doozy -- two in one day. No wonder I got the jones so bad.
You know what the worst part is? There ain't nothin' I can do to scratch the itch. Nothing but that hoary old standard: write, submit, repeat. But it's not enough. It's never enough.
I've got two books floating around out there in the great big world. Two books, and another on the way. Got a short out there, too. Should have more than one short making the rounds, but the New Book eats up all my time. Not that I mind much; the New Book is good. Really good. And when I'm working on it, the New Book makes the itch go away.
I check my e-mail. There's nothing there. I pop over to CrimeSpot and read a couple blog posts, or, at least, I try; their words barely even register. I drift like a ghost from one usual internet haunt to the next, but there ain't one of 'em can make the craving go away.
The phone rings. I flinch. Turns out, it's not for me. That's okay -- maybe there's something waiting in my e-mail.
Nope, still nothing. It's coming soon, though, I can feel it. Or at least, I hope I can.
Sometimes being a writer ain't easy. You know what, though? It sure beats just sitting around. After all, the only thing worse than waiting is having nothing at all to wait for...