The Trouble With Waiting

Ask me how I spent my Tuesday.

Waiting.

I had a few phone meetings. I tried to get past my writer’s block on another article I’m writing. I had other projects to work on, book marketing prep to tackle.

But mostly I spent Tuesday waiting for the UPS guy. The one who had on his truck in NYC since 8:01AM in the morning the proof for my book. The hard copy so to speak, except the print version is in paperback.

Don’t ask me how many times I checked the tracking number. Or how many times I asked the doorman if the UPS truck had arrived yet.  Let’s just say it was like waiting for a pot of  water to boil.

I know better than to wait. I almost have to laugh at the Universe’s sense of humor that at 7:15PM the book had not arrived. But that is still what I did. Wait. Anxious. Torturing myself with questions.

Is the color of the cover going to print correctly? Will all the type be in the right spot? These are the things a publishing house would have done if I had gone the traditional route. Why was I doing this myself, again? Am I going to read it one more time and be happy and satisfied or terrified that this is not ready for prime time? How many mistakes would I find? Will they be small enough to let it go? What makes me think I can write anyway? I have agonized over this other article, struggling to put words together that make sense like I have never written an article before. Who’s going to want to read my story anyway?

This is what inhabits my mind when waiting. Every insecurity I have ever had comes creeping back in and could make one wonder, did she really spend all that money to work on herself, ’cause it doesn’t sound like it’s working. 


At 7:52PM the package arrived. The waiting over. My book is real. Tomorrow I read. And then I hit publish.