I have been hiding away for so long.  Summer adventures have come and gone.  I have edited and edited and written and rewritten so much.  But I have not documented any of it here.

I feel ashamed.

I feel emancipated.

I put down my dog.  The night my daughter and I came home from Germany, exhausted from a long plane ride, we were met at the door by my Loki.  His leg was hemorrhaging, possibly due to cancer that I suspected was there but never had diagnosed.  My husband and I took Lok to the vet where he laid on the floor, was covered by a blanket, and went to sleep.

I wrapped my hands into his fur, ran my hands up and down the piano keys of his ribs and told him that I loved him.

“I love you Loki.”

“I love you Loki.”

I told him that I loved him his whole life.  And now I would love him for the rest of mine.

I will admit, I stole that from the movie Phenomenon.  

My dog left this world in a quiet veterinary office with my fingers deep in his fur and loved.  And I miss him.  I miss him terribly.  Even now, nearly two months later, I still find myself grieving which makes me avoid this place because I use this place to document what I have experienced, what I have felt.

I miss my Loki, my delphinium dog (I will tell that story later, but I really want to stop crying so I’m changing the topic).

I finished my novel.  Finished finished finished.  I thought it was finished thirteen years ago and then I overhauled it and it was finished and I overhauled it and now, thirteen years and at least thirteen edits later, I have a finished piece.

My newest set of editors shredded my book and I’m so thankful because the writing feels pure, clear.  I feel like I’ve tapped into the emotions my characters were trying to experience but my amateurish ways inhibited that process.

I’ve written my summary.  My editor wrote me a glorious query letter.

And I sent it today.

I went to a writers’ conference this last weekend and an agent whom I expected to reject the novel wants pages so I went through one last time and edited one last time.  And I wrote and rewrote and edited and reedited my synopsis.

And then I gathered my courage in both hands and sent my novel to the agent this morning.

I’m waiting for the no.

I’m praying for the yes.

But I expect to be rejected because I can’t be accepted this quickly.  Sure, I’ve sent it out before and it’s been rejected.  But still.

Steinbeck was rejected 76 times.  I feel like I need to earn that many even though I don’t want to.

I will send out to a hundred agents.  And if it’s still being rejected, then the novel goes up on Amazon.

For now, I’m waiting.

I’m closing off moments and parts of my life and preparing to move forward, to chase new dreams and new adventures that I’m not certain where they will lead.  But I’m going.