I Will Not Talk Myself Down.

The sounds of chopping drifts through the air. I also call them the sounds of my boyfriend being amazing. He’s making dinner, which he does on a regular basis. Tonight involves steak and veggies of some sort. I saw peppers and I think broccoli before I banished myself to the living room.

It is here that I will put the finishing touches on my query letter. I have my hook, the this is what my story is about. I like it. I’d want to know more if I read it. And I have read a lot of paragraphs on the back of books attempting to find new authors to read. Though, my pile of unread books is dwindling. I need to get a library card soon, and hope that the city library is decent. I had been getting books from the college library.

The next paragraph is short. It’s the “I know my market” paragraph. My book is a little shorter than most, but it will be my first. Better to be a little under the typical word count than way over.

The last paragraph is the “contact me please, here’s how” paragraph. If I had stories published, there’d be another paragraph detailing some of my work, but I don’t. Not yet. I’m going at this thing, along, scared, barely hanging on, but I reached the bottom days ago when I almost talked myself out of taking the chance. I almost said “fuck this, I’ll just work retail and be a substitute teacher on my days off until the economy turns and people care about educating their children again.”

Almost. But then, I realized I would never be happy doing that. It would kill my soul, pulling every bit of worth and desire from me until I remained nothing but an empty shell. Fuck that. I want to be alive. I want to be vibrant. I want color and glory and sunshine. I want the pride that comes with working my ass off to get to that impossible dream.

Impossible dreams are meant to come true. Those are the ones we work for, that we keep close to our hearts and share with anyone who will listen because the more people that know, the more incentive there is to chase after it.

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