I wrote a book. A novel. It turned out to be exactly the book I meant it to be. My darling. The image of my soul. I sent a first batch of queries to about a dozen agents. One expressed interest. I sent her eighty pages. She asked for more--the whole book. In the end, though, she decided to pass. Still, I was flattered by her interest and took it as a good omen.

It wasn’t. In the three years since, I have contacted more agents and small presses than I care to specify, and have gotten, in response, enough indifference to fill the backs of at least fifteen pick-up trucks.

So I have this novel. I also have a life-threatening illness. In 2005, I was diagnosed with metastatic, or advanced, breast cancer. I remember that day. The news hit me like a gut punch. Fourteen years had passed since my original, stage-one diagnosis, and I was horrified to learn that those little critter cells had, all along, been swarming through my body, expanding their empire, making themselves at home. The projected life expectancy for most women with this diagnosis is three to seven years. More recently, the cancer has spread to other parts of my body.

Of course, failing to publish a beloved literary work--the product of so much heart and mind--is an unthinkable plot twist for any writer. But as long as there is the presumption of an unbound future, the belief that maybe next year, or in five, or maybe in ten, the madness in the universe might resolve in one’s favor…there can still be hope—sturdy, indestructible (even if dwindling) hope. It has been hard to get myself to beat down the overgrowth of hope that flourishes, without nourishment, like a weed.