Like The Sea

Lately it feels like as soon as I've taken everything out of my suitcase, I'm repacking it again and hitting the road. My head hurts and all I can think about are Ingrid Michaelson's lyrics about the man who smells like the sea.

Isaac is ten months old and taking his first steps, small faltering steps with arms reaching out in front. His eyes are still blue and his hair is turning golden at the roots, a single curl at the back of his neck. Strange that I should have a child who looks so unlike me, enough to make people ask if he is my foster baby. I think he may have said "mama" yesterday but I can't say for sure.

I have writer's block. I love the story-line and the characters I have created for my next book, but I cannot seem to work out the plot to my satisfaction. As my last novel was literary fiction, the plot wasn't as important as diction. The piece I am working on now falls into a genre I cannot define, and it must be plot-driven in order to succeed.

I have researched ten new agencies to query, but cannot send out my proposals until I hear back from the last agency who contacted me. If they want to represent me, then I don't want to have surplus queries in the mail, making it impossible for me to notify the other agencies for a counter-offer. I hate waiting.

Sometimes it feels like all I do is wait.