I’m not going to lie to you. I’m tempted, to be sure, but I’ll remain truthful. I’ll cough it up, phlegm and all.
I don’t think I’ve been using the word ‘precipice’ correctly. There. It’s out in the world.
For weeks, months, I’ve entertained a gnawing mantra that seemed to be playing on a continuous loop in my mind- I’m on the precipice. Something big is going to happen, and it’s going to happen SOON. I’m on the edge of either a monumental milestone for my writing career, or I’m going to consider shelving this manuscript for a bit. I was teetering, but hopeful.
The eagerness, the buzzing anticipation reverberating through my body savored this feeling, this moment of precipice in my life. Sure, I was weary from waiting. But what’s a little patience when you’re on the precipice?
And then I double checked the definition. Turns out, being on the precipice isn’t so much about the coming of big things-it’s literally the edge of a cliff. Like, a deadly cliff where one sneeze on the precipice and you’re plummeting to your own demise.
And if that doesn’t equally sum up querying this year, phew. A little uncanny, to be honest. I kid. But that literal translation, though accurate in morbid relation to these authentic perilous feelings, sends a much darker message than I intend.
So I’ll clarify-I am not on a precipice. I’m merely in limbo. But don’t worry, Dante has a good feeling I’ll be able to claw my way outta here.