I’m not sure I ever realized how many—how very many—publishers and literary agents there are. Just when I think I’ve exhausted the supply, I come upon an entirely different universe of small presses or potential agents. (Of course I only contact those who seem well-matched with my book.)

But will I really go on and on, querying hundreds, and eventually thousands, of literary personnel? The prospect is wearying.

And yet I’ve noticed that every envelope I launch at the P.O., each e-mail that soars through the cybersphere inspires hope in me again. The supply of hope, too, seems inexhaustible.

I so wish that some corresponding font of hope existed for the possibility of a cure, or something like it, for my metastatic disease. Yes, I usually live as if life will go on and on, but lately what hope I have has become almost another source of anxiety. Why think about hope when it’s linked to a medical monster that I’d rather not think about? Contemplating those positive outcomes—a good report after a CT scan, or the lurking research that might save so many of us—bring with them the risk of very painful letdown.