The excitement of finding an agent for my novel has worn off, replaced by a feeling of having fallen in a deep hole, one deep enough to permit me to see the clouds drift by, but nothing else. Even when the plane flew by dragging the agent’s next message—“Now writing a pitch letter and assembling a list of editors to target”—my mood brightened only briefly. Is this feeling common?
It seems to me the only cure is to let the agent do her thing, and be patient. And begin working on the next book. How about . . .
The body was placed just so, with the arms and legs splayed like a paper doll, leaving Inspector Jamison with the distinct feeling that lunch would be delayed.