Often the realization of a dream comes only after striving for it for such a long time, that it looses a bit of its luster. The dream arrives a little worn around the edges, a little less shiny than we expected.
And then there are those dreams that no matter how long we have held them, no matter how many lesser achievements lead in small steps to the ultimate goal, no matter how often the ultimate goal may have been close enough to touch, when finally we grab hold with both hands and the dream becomes real, it is every bit the sparkly thing we imagined, none the worse for the wear.
With only a few days left to pass before the release of my first published novel I find myself somewhere in between feeling elated and deflated. Not my first novel, mind you, there were three other near misses early in my writing career. Queried to a large publishing house, each made it through synopsis and sample chapters, to the request for the full manuscript and, though rejected, encouragement to try again.
I should be bouncing off the walls, but instead I feel stunned—in the literal sense of the word—almost paralyzed. Despite years of waiting for this moment, of working my craft, honing my skills, despite all the times I have imagined success, and despite a long year of hard work to bring this book from first draft to published novel, it still doesn’t feel real in this standstill, as I patiently wait to have books in hand. This must be what limbo is like.