I’m so tired – everyone says. We all yawn in the office kitchen because we want to run away to Glebe Park. Beneath the trees we will suddenly awaken, no longer bored and folded into cages.
I feel guilty; that there is no reason for such tiredness, until I remember the many things I do each day – most of them alone, fighting the secret anxious battle I wage inside my body. And then at 9pm, when my angel is asleep I begin editing.
I have edited Lorelei’s Hand and Almost Twelve, at the request of a very lovely editor. (Editors who acknowledge your existence are surely lovely?)
I have edited Almost Twelve three times. I want it to be as tight as my office party smile.
At the request of another editor I have edited A Perverse Sort of Liberty. His mag is British and hipster so I’m stupidly delighted he liked Kinky because she is my favourite favourite character.
Amongst these textual wranglings is an increasingly long list of magazines to submit to. The copious sticky notes on my laptop remind me of competition deadlines, rewrites for editors, magazines taking submissions this month. They tease me with the growing pile of stories that need finishing.
And at the bottom of the list is a reminder to relax.
Writing is the journey, the joy. All else is vain fantasy.