You Zing Them: Hello, It's Mr. Nasty

Hunting for a literary agent is going to make me psychotic. I hover around my computer as if it were a bomb that may or may not explode at any given moment. Only if it does explode, it is taking the better part of the previous year along with it.

I feel like Kathleen, Meg Ryan's character from You've Got Mail:
"I turn on my computer, I wait impatiently as it boots up. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail." And then the Cranberries start singing and she is happily walking down the streets of New York City, West side, exhilarated because she got mail from Joe (Tom Hank's character).

Only for me, the Cranberries never start singing. Oh sure, my life is "changing every day, every step of the way," and all that jazz, but I have yet to hear back from a particular agency of interest and it is making me a nervous wreck. I turn on my computer, I go online, and my breath catches in my throat until I'm practically choking. And all this for two little words: Inbox: O! At which point in my day (mind you, this happens several times throughout the day), I am both immensely frustrated and absurdly relieved. I am frustrated because I have to keep going through this until I do hear from them, and relieved because, well, who knows? Their email may very well say that I cannot write, and I should find something else to do with my time.

"Do you ever feel you've become the worst version of yourself?"

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