Paralysis

This word seems to define many aspects of my life right now. Though I've decided to go ahead with Prince of Tricks, I'm afraid to write anything on it. I write a paragraph, then delete it. There's so much back story now that I don't know where to begin, and my MC doesn't know most of the back story herself, so I have to be careful not to put things in that she isn't aware of in her first-person narrative.

Then there's the subplot about the Prince of Tricks himself. Is there really room for that in this story? Maybe it deserves its own book. Can I pull this off? Will I be able to do either of these stories justice if I include them both? And should I really be putting time into this project when I still don't know whether the first book will even get representation, let alone a publisher?

One agent has the full, one has passed on the partial, and I have one query outstanding with no response yet. I can't decide whether to continue querying. What if the story is fatally flawed, and I'm sending out queries to agents I can never query again? Should I wait until I get the rejection on the full and hope it isn't a form rejection so I can get some insight into what isn't working? Or am I just allowing my fear to keep me from taking any action? Maybe I should work on more rewrites before submitting again—but maybe that's just another form of not doing anything.

Meanwhile, I've been wanting to get physically active again, after spending a year embedded in these books and sitting on my ass. It seems like a simple thing: just go outside and start walking. But I think about it, I mean to do it, and then I just...can't. The mild agoraphobia plays a role, I suppose, and the weather (though the rain has not been constant, so that's just an excuse). If I don't start moving, however, the writers' cruise in May is going to be here before I know it, and I'll be heading to the Bahamas unable to fit into my bathing suit. Then I'll have to go bathing suit shopping again. I'd rather cut off my pinky toes with pruning shears.

I can't even decide whether this post is worth posting. My hand is hovering over the delete button. Who wants to read this self-indulgent whinging? And why am I still sitting here at my computer messing with my blog while dreaming of cinnamon buns? I should go out and get some. But do I really need cinnamon buns? Why does every action I think of taking feel so supremely self-indulgent and wasteful that I just slip back into paralysis...which is ultimately more self-indulgent and wasteful than anything I can't quite decide to do?