|I'll bet Giorgio Vasari waited it out.|
Then we wait.
Currently, I've got a novella awaiting cover art. I've got pages sitting in an agentry queue. I've got a plethora of short stories warming some editor's desk. I'm hoping to hear back from crit partners and beta readers. I'm waiting for a certain editor at a certain magazine to open submissions so I can submit.
For the most part, I don't mind waiting much. It's all about the Hope.While a piece is out there, it carries with it the possibility that it'll be accepted, that someone will love it as much as I do. Every time I send out a sub, it carries with it the chance that it'll sell.
It's the same hope that comes with a lottery ticket. People don't buy lottery tickets for the wins.They buy the lottery tickets for the hope of winning. That's the real prize (except when you win. Then you get money as well).
So yeah. I sit and wait and focus on the hope and the possibilities it suggests. I have to focus on that, because so many, many times I get a lovely little alas-o-gram back from an editor saying that they're not buying this piece, because it's not right for them. Alas. Rejection is a common part of the game, one you grow used to (though never like).
It's not all bad. I think these editors suspect how much I like hope, because many of them send back a little bit of it: "However," they say, "we like your style. Please send us more stories."
And so I do, winging one their way with its little payload of hope.
Her Grace is kept alive by hope. And very yummy food.