All the time someone is reading my work, I'm anxious. I get more anxious as the time goes on. Maybe they can't think of a nice way to tell me it's bad, I think. Maybe I've completely lost it and handed in the worse book in history. Was it even English? I do it every time. Alternatively, maybe they haven't had time to read it yet. Maybe they haven't had time to write me an email full of useful feedback. They probably have a million other things to do. Maybe they are waiting until they actually see me.
But it isn't just that that is stressing me out. Dodger, my ginger cat, who is part teddy bear and is my constant writing companion, is in the vet hospital. He stopped eating last weekend, and was diagnosed with jaundice on Monday. Four days on a drip with antibiotics and steroids haven't brought any improvement so I think everyone is agreed that, unless he is much better by morning, his time is up. He's fourteen, it's not a shock and yet...I can't bear it. Every now and then a wave of grief overwhelms me. In between, I'm sane and sensible, but then... I'm just hoping for it to pass once Dodger is gone.
So this is a sad me, not writing, not cuddling my cat, just waiting to feel better.