This is what “almost” looks like.
Maybe in a day or so, I’ll be eating our first tomato. I didn’t post a picture of my first tomato while it was still on the plant. I didn’t even really mean to pick it. I was just admiring it, turning it on the vine so I could see it better, and it popped off in my hand. I displayed it proudly on an upside down plastic glass in the middle of our island, with my “Tomato” book front and center beside it. It was still a little hard, so I decided to let it ripen up for a few days.
It had a black spot on the bottom, but I didn’t worry. I figured I could easily cut it out. I dreamed of how I might eat that first tomato. Sprinkled with salt? It wasn’t big enough to make a sauce, and I didn’t have any basil or mozzarella to make it the way my friend does. So, salt it would be. But then, a few days later, I cut into it.
Fail. I was pretty proud of myself for not getting more upset. Maybe it’s because I have twenty other tomatoes on the vine, and I figure they won’t all look this way on the inside. I was willing to wait a little longer. I figured all good gardeners have a few fails in their past. It was just a notch on my belt.
I’ve gotten several rejection letters from agents the past few weeks. They gave me the same feeling as when I cut into my first tomato. But several of them were generous enough to offer some advice. I think I started my story in the wrong place, so I’m going to edit before I send any more out. There are still many tomatoes on the vine. Many great agents.
Almost. We got our home study back from our caseworker, which means we’re one step closer to our baby. Someday soon we’ll getting our invitation to be fingerprinted. We’ll be tidying up our dossier and putting this process in Honduran hands.
Almost. I can be depressed by those rejections from agents, or I can move forward with each one. Taking the advice that feels right and continuing the search, with a better manuscript each time.
Almost. Any day now I’ll break out the salt and slice through a red, ripe tomato.