Here’s something I’ve learned about writing: I don’t know anything about writing. When I first started writing, I always assumed there’d be some endpoint where everything was different and I was different and writing was different and I was famous and wrote because I was famous and wanted to keep churning out important books. Now, after having struggled with writing and publishing, after coming to understand nothing about writing but a whole helluva lot about rejection and how it effects me and how I write, I’m come to care less about publication than ever before. I’m not saying I don’t want to see a book of mine published, but for the sake of being an artist, I can’t spend too much time thinking about it. Of course, I will, and it will disturb the creative process, but I’m doing my best to move onward ever further into my work and worry less and less about who sees it. Every single second I attempt to interest someone in my manuscripts or my stories is another moment I can’t get back, another moment I can’t be creative. For instance, I’ve finished the draft of Apocalypse Nation, and I’m trying to interest some agents in the work, but it’s way in the back of my mind, all the way behind the really important things–family, work, community, yoga. Although i’ve been putting in the footwork, researching agents, sending out queries, etc, it isn’t ruling me the way similar quests have in the past. In fact, I’ve already started a new novel. I’m hoping to put in a thousand words a day, five days a week, give or take, and have a draft finished by the end of spring. Then, continuing on my quest to live the creative, literary life, I’m going to revise that sucker all summer. Right now, the new novel has no title, but it seems to be about Napoleon Bonaparte and the after life. My narrator is M. Bonaparte’s attendant. I have no idea what will come of all this. I hope that the next few rejections don’t send me into a tailspin they way they have in the past, divert me from the work, but I do know that for better or worse, I don’t seem to be able to stop writing, so I have to find a way to live with all of it, good and bad, and allow myself the pleasure of wrestling with my doubt as I work toward each new page.