Last weekend was odd.
Was it just the snow that fell and then stopped to melt for a bit and then fell again?
No, that wasn’t it.
Was it the third of my six classes in the Kenyon Online Winter Writers’ Workshop, where my classmates and I had the first of our two sessions with the eminent Dinty W. Moore of Brevity fame?
Not really, although I confess to being in awe of some of my coevals and hope I measure up to their skills.
Last weekend was odd because I realized that my panic attacks were ascendant once more.
I had a serious brush with them in August and September of last year. I won’t discuss the cause, but I became hyper-sensitive to caffeine and experienced severe heart palpitations and arrhythmia. Thankfully, or perhaps not-so-thankfully, I’ve had enough panic attacks in my life not to hurl myself headlong into an emergency room anymore. After dialing down my coffee intake to a single cup per day and after dialing up the intensity of my meditation habit (and the dose of Trazodone I take before bed), the symptoms eased up before September was over.
But from mid-January, or, more precisely, on January 20th, the symptoms returned. I had neither increased my caffeine intake nor had I decreased my meditation practice. My symptoms are a reaction to *waves hands vaguely* all the shit going on nowadays.
I tried to use most of last weekend to force a calm within me. I watched three episodes of Extraordinary Attorney Woo, even though, as Hiro notes repeatedly, I cry watching them. I played several hours’ worth of Tears of the Kingdom until I decided that I did not want to fight yet another Frox in the Depths (although Hiro watched me beat a Queen Gibdo down there).
I’ve been trying to stop accessing social media from my cell phone. What was once a great way to remain connected with all kinds of friends, everywhere, has finally devolved into doomscrolling.
When last Sunday morning dawned, despite doing both my journal work and my meditation, my malaise remained persistent.
After lunch, Hiro watched the snow fall for a minute and announced that he wanted ice cream. With one proviso: no Dairy Queen. Because I had mentioned that I wanted to gas up the car (and the cheapest place for gas is the Costco in Federal Way), Hiro went online and found La Mihoacana Classic, also in Federal Way. I looked at their socials: they sell ice cream, paletas, agua fresca, and snacks like Dorilocos. Hiro usually avoids Mexican cuisine—he is very spice-averse—but we went.
I tried two sherbets in favorite flavors: mango and tamarind. Hiro asked me what chamoy was; all I knew was it’s spicy. You can see the rivers of tajín in the ice cream, but Hiro asked for a tasting spoon anyway. Nope. He settled for passion fruit, guava, and strawberry, which were all amazing, especially the strawberry.
But the treats were sweet. Next time, I’ll easily make do with a single scoop.
Once home, I conceded that I wasn’t feeling well. It certainly wasn’t the ice cream—I took my lactase—but a familiar listlessness ebbed in on my emotional tide. Combine anxiety, a fear of things that may come to pass, with depression, a sadness at things that are, and my brain enters nope mode.
Were there emails I needed to answer? Yes.
Did I tell myself I should finish this newsletter and send it out? Yes.
Was there laundry piling up? Yes.
Did I do any of those things?
Nope.
I did not, however, doomscroll.
I tucked my cellphone deep within the blankets, and I watched one more episode of Extraordinary Attorney Woo until Hiro came up and asked about dinner.
As we ran through our separate mental lists of what was—and was not—in the refrigerator or freezer or pantry or the vegetable chill chest on the porch (the temps have unseasonably hovered around freezing for at least ten days), potatoes? yes, spaghetti? yes, gyōza? yes, sausage? yes, broccoli? yes, cabbage? yes, tōfu? yes, pork? yes, settling on one of my favorites, mābōdōfu, I excavated my phone as Hiro stepped back down the stairs to, as my father used to say, see a man about a dog.
In my email inbox, an unexpected missive.
Tears immediately welled in my eyes, and the training of social media kicked in: Take a selfie! That’s the picture at the top of this newsletter.
I then typed the news into the chat that Hiro and I belong to with several dear friends:
Please raise a glass for me. I got my first full request from a literary agent just now. They have read my query, my 60-page proposal, and now want to read the entire manuscript.
Hiro came bounding up the stairs. “Why does good news happen when I’m in the washroom?”
I needed that reminder—Hiro knows how important my writing is to me—but then came his questions…
Is she a legit agent? Is the agency legit? Will she steal your manuscript?
Judging by the website, both she and the agency passed the legitimacy sniff tests. I also checked Writers’ Beware and found nothing. The manuscript’s copyright was mine from the moment I first started typing in September of 2020. So it’d be very hard, not to mention legally challenging, for any agent, good or bad, to steal the manuscript.
But Hiro’s questions signal his protectiveness, and I am grateful he asks them.
Later in the week, during one of my sick days (the feeling of listlessness grew into a big old head cold, oh, joy), I also talked Hiro through all the if-then gates I must pass before publishing.
If the agent likes the manuscript (and she will be reading it on her own schedule), then she will likely schedule a phone call to discuss her reaction.
If, after the phone call ends and both her questions and mine are answered to our mutual satisfaction, and if no other agents have signalled their competing interest, then we talk about an agreement.
If the review of the agreement goes well, then my relationship with the agent formally begins.
The agent will probably help me revise and strengthen my proposal and then seek out publishers and/or editors.
Then comes a similar set of ifs and thens with the publishers and/or editors. If they like the proposal, if they want the manuscript, and if the contract is feasible for all parties, then the process kicks into high gear. If I’m lucky, there’ll be an advance.
There’ll be more revisions, potential cover designs, and I might need to involve a PR specialist to plot things like signings and, dare I hope, television coverage.
There’ll be a roadmap to publication that might eventually include sending copies to potential reviewers. And if I give voice to my dreams, to award committees. (I don’t want a Nobel Prize, but I would love to be considered for a Lambda Literary Award.)
If you’ve met me, you might have noticed that my excitements fade quickly, and I paint devils on the wall.
The agent won’t like the manuscript.
No other agent will respond to my queries.
No more of my essays will ever find a home.
Talk about doomscrolling!
But I need to stay positive. After all, as my dear friend Ashleigh Renard reminded me, my tarot draw for 2025 was The World.
The world is most assuredly going to hell in a Cybertruck, but I have to keep hoping that some good is coming my way. Ashleigh also reminds me that I’m a Capricorn with Aries rising and a Scorpio moon. In other words? I am that bish!
Let’s keep the endorphins rolling. Tell me about your joys, big or small. Let me celebrate you, too.
That is such wonderful news. Never give up!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ By the way, It’s really hard to not school through social media in the mornings or in the evenings I tend to do it when I’m just exhausted, but it does totally ignite my anxiety!
That is encouraging news given all the work you've put it to get to point. They re willing to invest their time so stay in that hope because you can respond to them. You're a great writer from I have seen. Best of luck to you .