It was a rough week over at Casa Kreutz Gallardo. My youngest developed a high fever that lasted a week and culminated in two-night hospital stay. On top of that, there was worry that the fever might have affected his heart. Thankfully, two cardiographs show everything is normal in that department -- we all hope that future follow-ups will continue to be positive. He's all better, too, thanks for asking. Just as frisky and ornery as ever. The sense of relief of everyone in our circle is palpable.
And while that was happening, my agent was asking me to get material to her so that she can start shopping my novel to publishers. Nothing like rewrites, which are all done, thank God. She needed a synopsis, a bio, and a few other things. I know I could have told her about my circumstances and begged a few more days from her, but I decided not to do that. I wanted to do my best to give her what she needed in a timely manner.
And it occurred to me that after I'd got everything to her that will probably be what life as a freelance writer. Not the hospital visits, but trying to fit work in among the life moments that tear at me constantly. And it made me realize that I am probably up to the task. Which is reassuring to me. I know that if the situation is ever very dire, I'll bow out, but for now, I was happy to get that shit done. Off the plate and to my agent. In the past, I've looked for excuses to not work. That's done with. Now it's time to be serious about this writing thing.