Mailbox Obsession

"You've got mail," your computer says to you. Your heart pounds, beads of sweat form at your hairline. This could be it. This could be the contract you've been waiting for.

You hurry over and click on your inbox. Just some mass forward from your Aunt Edna. You sigh, dissapointed. Again.

You my friend, have got mailbox obession. Whether its the e-mail you're checking every five minutes or the mailbox, you know it's not healthy. You know you've got to stop but you just can't help yourself.

Let me tell you as one who has lived through that strange ailment, this too shall pass. Well, sort of.

Let me share my sad story and maybe it will help those of you going through it now.

When I started trying to get published, like forever ago, I sent things out snail-mail. That was the only way back then. I would mail off my MS and then happily go back to writing something new as I waited.

I wouldn't even think of my hopeful MS, my hopeful contract--for about two weeks. But, then the mailbox obsession would begin.

I'd peek out the window every time the dog's ears would go up in the direction of the front door, wondering if it was the mailman she heard.

No, just a neighbor walking by. Drats. Where is the mailman anyway? There he is walking up the street, slow as slug. I go to the kitchen fix myself a drink, come back to the front window. He's still not here yet. Should I meet him halfway?

No, I can wait. Its only a few more minutes. I pace, I peek out the window again, and he spots me. He always spots me. And I think I see him roll his eyes, but I can't be sure.

I hear my mailbox clink shut and I wait for two minutes. I actually time this. So, he'll be at least a few houses down when I get my mail. I don't like anyone, not even him to know, how truly obsessed I've become. Though, I suspect he knows. Along with everyone in my house.

With anticipation galore, I file through the white envelopes tossing bills and cards aside, like a child trying to get to the prize at the bottom of the cracker jacks box. I see something labeled from a publishing company and my hands tremble.

It's a thin envelope, not thick enough to return my ms. That's good! It's thin, but not rejection letter thin. It's several pages at least. Just the right size of a contract. A contract! My stomach dances nervously and I rip my envelope open.

Dear Mrs. Holmes,

We would like you to renew your subscription to Southern Living. Enclosed you will find the needed paperwork.


Agggghhhh!

I throw the envelope on the floor and stomp it. I feel certain I will not be renewing my subscription to that insensitive, play with people's emotions, magazine. How cruel.

Any of this sound familiar?

This mailbox obsession, I think, is fairly common to writers at the beginning stages of sending their stuff out to publishers and agents.

After a dozen or so rejection letters, trust me when I tell you, you won't be stalking the mailbox quite as fervently. Though, I do still check my inbox way more than a normal person.

Eight years after sending out proposals and articles, I still check my e-mail at least twice a day with a glint of hope in my eyes that I will hear from my agent there is interest. But, that's certainly better than every five minutes.

With time mailbox obsession does improve dramatically and there is a cure. A contract. At least I think that's a cure. Of course, when you get your first contract, you'll have already started trying to land your second and the stalking of the mail carrier begins anew. And that's something both of you can look forward to.