The one where my book gets rejected.

The final say came through yesterday. A year or so on from when I first sent it out to agents. 

The final say was No. 

She said it kindly – praised my writing and the changes made to the novel but ultimately she said no, which is kind of what counts at this point. I considered crying but thought better of it. This isn’t massively surprising news – it was always the more likely choice – and the thing I’m most upset about is that I don’t now have a reason to sit and write all day / fly to England whenever I please.

Sigh.

But, there is good news amidst the bad. The positivity about my writing has been a big boost and people genuinely seem to think that if I apply myself and keep going with this writing thing then one day it will happen. And the truth is I made it pretty far for a first novel - an agent willing to represent me and a publisher who was willing to read it more than once. This sounds like I'm boasting - I don't mean to - it's more an exercise in reminding myself why crying and moping is not necessary. 

So.

So I need to start writing again, a whole new book, which is going to mean summoning self-discipline, which I don’t have in large quantities. And inspiration, which to be honest is easier to come by than self-discipline where I’m concerned, and it’s not easy to come by.

Project Hannah Personality Transplant is officially underway. 

You owe me.

Me: “Sometimes I feel like you’re not interested in what I’m saying – like you’re listening but not really listening”

Jeremy: “You were talking about traffic”

Me: “Yea, but…”

But traffic has become the deciding factor of my day. Sail through and in the office within 35 – 40 minutes = good day. Stuck the moment I get on Route 9 and over an hour spent holding very personal grudges against SUVs and wannabe sports-cars = bad day. It’s all decided before I even sit down at my desk and even a good day can turn into a bad day if the mall/school / random sods-law traffic gets me on the way home.

It’s different somehow than commuting on public transport. I’m not saying that that’s a breeze – walking to the tube in all weathers and seasons; enduring inevitable hold-ups right outside Bond Street; attempting to find that happy place somewhere inside my head to teleport me away from the reality of body-odor and not-quite-clean-enough hair brushing up against me. None of that is fun. But none of that incurs quite the same level of rage.

Hang on… memory coming through…

Ah yes, I’m wrong. As a London commuter I used to have terrible thoughts about slow people, people standing on the wrong side of the escalators, tourists. I remember thinking horribly personal things that I would never in a billion years actually voice, but the vitriol in my head used to make me wonder if in fact everyone is capable of cold-blooded murder, given the right circumstances.

I don’t remember it impacting quite so heavily on my every day though. It was something to be got through and then the day started. Maybe that’s the thing – with driving you can’t switch off and go to that happy place or immerse yourself in a book and pretend the world doesn’t exist because, well, then you would die or at least cause even more traffic.

So, in summary, I’m sorry J but you’re going to have to put up with my talking about traffic. More than that, you need to start caring and being interested in my traffic related stories – you need to enquire after the hair color of the man that sped down the right hand lane even though it was closed 100 yards later and traffic was merging and he clearly knew this and didn’t care that it’s people like him that cause things to move this slowly in the first place. The reason you have to do this is firstly that it’s integral to my day and moaning about it helps. And secondly because your commute is almost, sometimes, on a bad day for me and a good day for you, a full hour shorter than mine and most days you’re still asleep when I walk out the door and into an hour of anger. Basically, you owe me.

husbandless

This week, I have been husbandless. While I've been working and doing normal working / cooking / sleeping things, he's been off in Panama, diving and exploring in the sunshine.

(I can write this now because Jeremy gets home tonight so any would be breaker-inners needn't bother, I have my man back to protect me. haha.)

Before he went away, I was looking forward to it. I go away / work late or on Saturdays fairly regularly so Jeremy often gets time on his own in the house. Me, not so much. I envisaged this week laid out before me as a stretch of time where I could make my own choices on what I ate/ what I watched on TV; where I could come home and write without thinking about making dinner or hanging out with Jeremy.

(I should say, he doesn't expect me to cook every night or push me to eat certain things or hang out or anything, but things are different, together.)

Anyway, the point is I had all these plans and I expected to feel free somehow I guess - free to do what I wanted, to have that space of solitude that is only fully real when you're alone - when there's no one to know you're still in PJs at 2pm or that you mostly had ice cream for dinner.

Needless to say, I missed him within 8 hours of him being gone. 24 hours later I was calling friends and booking in sleepovers so that I wouldn't have to be alone in the house all week - not so much for the fear of being alone as much as the emptiness of it. Time passed slower without him, and not in a good way.

I missed his constant singing / tapping / general noise-making. I missed his hugs and his jokes; I missed laughing and snuggling; I missed him remembering to take the trash out.

On the flip side, my house is full of flowers I bought to keep me company, and a few other purchases too...shhhh