The agent calls, with words about the manuscript. The words are good. She is sharp and full of business; she does not do gushing or sentiment. The words that send my heart soaring are not lovely darling lovely adjectives, but unadorned bald ones, about selling and territories.
Writing is an oddly helpless business. You can put the words in the right order and get all your ducks in a row and polish your paragraphs until they glimmer and gleam, but there is still no guarantee that anyone will like the thing, or want to sell it.
As usual with good news, I collapse in a heap. I’m oddly good at bad news. I get cussed and grit my teeth and think of the bastards not getting me down. I have no defence against good news.
Back tomorrow, when I shall have recovered.
In the meantime, here is Handsome Stanley: