What happens after you finish a big dream project—and have to let go?

After five years of writing, I have a polished manuscript.

Yay me!

I’m sending it to one agent a day, and somehow this gives me agency. I have no control over whether an agent resonates with my work, but the act of putting it out there, scattering seeds of possibility every day, means I’m following through on my dream. I guess that’s why my query process feels empowering.

And I trust Diving Timing. My story will find its way in the world—on it’s own terms, in it’s own time. The right agent will champion my debut novel, and my career. The right publisher will get behind my protagonist’s voice. The kindest thing I can do for myself while my dream shakes itself out, is ship and let go.

Maybe I’m also feeling stronger because I tapped out for a good long time.

No obligations. No relationshipping. Just puttering.

Hubby and I slept in, cooked off-diet, binged Roku. We puzzled: combining shapes and colors, plus quick sorting, made my brain hum. Then my heart sang—my love across from me, a crystal glass of brandied eggnog, puppies sleeping by the fire, listening to a badass bluegrass-version Pink Floyd’s “Time.” We also played cribbage, napped, and waited for Hubby’s third autoimmune diagnosis.

I read inspiring Substacks like Boo Walker’s essay “Leaping into the unknown of a new year” where he says, “You won’t hear from me about how terrible it is out there right now. There’s enough of that going around. Sure, things could be better, but I have little time for anxiety and fear—certainly none for hatred. There’s too much good to chase, to be done, to be created, in what little time we have.”

Erin Niumata’s “Why Patience Is an Author’s Secret Superpower” helped me reframe “agents aren’t getting back to me because my novel is terrible” to “I haven’t heard back because it’s not time.”

As my brain drained and my nervous system reset, I noticed the magic around me. The dexterity that at nearly 60, I’m stepping up to the endurance required to potty train two puppies, at three hour intervals, twenty-four hours a day, while living in a two-story walk-up.

I forgot myself in the comedy of Matt Rife; dreamy songs like Butterfly; transportive movies like The Sunlit Night, enchanting fiction like The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake by Rachel Linden; and the powerful nonfiction of James Doty’s Mind Magic and Jason Silva’s Sacred Derangement. Sue Monk Kidd’s Writing Creativity and Soul reminded me that I still have something to say.

Gradually, social media posts came to me. Blog posts and newsletters took shape. Ideas for my next book started to coalesce.

Slowing down reminded me that I have all I need. Of course I want to sign with an agent who sells my debut novel to a publisher. But that’s out of my hands. I’ve given my book baby a solid foundation. Now it’s time for it to go into the world and find its own life. I’ll be there to support it, but I can’t control outcomes. All I can do is put it out there. Navigating the unknown is hard, but I know that no matter what happens, everything is already alright.