After seven months, hundreds of hours and even more revisions, I’ve released Deep in the Bin of Bob. There was a moment when I felt a surge of achievement; but the feeling immediately morphed into a pool of clear water which dribbled out of my brain, down my face, chest and feet, where it formed a puddle on the floor by my feet.
Now I’m not sure what to do with myself. I spent hours working on Deep in the Bin Bob. For a short time, I had a purpose. I was king of a small thing, a conqueror of the imagination of my own brain, a landlord of my own time and space.
Now I’m back: once again the wingman to myself.
I’ve sent my new book to a literary agent. So now, I wait. This process again. This moment of grey hope that looms over everything like a pound coin glued to the pavement.
Perhaps a literary agent will look into my work, and believe I am worth representing, or perhaps the best part of this process has already happened: the puddle at my feet.
I’ve taken to cleaning the house and seeing faces in things: the carpets, the walls and the bins.
What do you do when you’ve spent nineteen years holding a pen, only to exist forever a mile beneath a floating system controlled by the partially sighted?
What next, but to stare at my puddle, and hope for someone to attach to me wings?