No one knows I write. I have not told anyone that I have finished two novels, and have been chasing after literary agents for the past two years. How much easier to deal with the frustration and misery of rejection when there is no significant other constantly asking about progress. 'How's it going?', 'Any luck?' and other assorted phrases never have to aggravate me.
The biggest problem with the secrecy is that it is difficult to find time to put pen to paper. With the partner always around, like a great mighty albatross, I have not been able to scribe the words that are constantly bouncing around in my head. I write mental pages, follow characters through scenes and anticipate the next move. Lately, though, my hand has been flexing of its own volition, longing to hold the bright yellow fountain pen and move across the pad, committing the thoughts into physical form.
Without writing to distract me, I find that I am becoming obsessed with checking the e-mail box, which can be done quickly and quietly. This being the holiday season, I do not really expect any literary agents to ask for material. No doubt they are sitting in their offices, trying to catch up with all the manuscripts that they asked for before. There is, therefore, no point in my sending out queries, and with the partner looking over my shoulder most of the day, there is no opportunity to whip up a new letter. And so, I look forward to the New Year, a third manuscript, and another year of seeking representation.
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