Thanks to everyone who commented on my funk over the past couple of days, whether with heartfelt sympathy or imperious demands that I stop feeling sorry for myself, get up off my ass, and start writing again.
I'm by no means cured of my melancholia but am feeling somewhat better. For one thing, I sat down yesterday and read my book. And I still believe it's rock-solid good, strongly written with an inventive plot that builds suspense and a killer ending. Maybe not Pulizter Prize-good or Edgar-winner good, but, honestly, as good as a lot of mystery/thrillers out there and a damn sight better than many. (I know, every author thinks the same.) Certainly better than the Sue Grafton mystery I'm reading now, which takes forever to get going, and in which she wastes two pages describing the inside of a motel room, a couple pages ruminating on a Burma Shave sign in an antique shop, along with other decidedly dull diversions. Of course, she's a fucking bazillionaire with a boatload of published books and I'm just a guy who can't convince an agent to take me on, so WTF do I know?
Whatever ever the reality, I felt confident enough to send out another five queries. I'm still bummed that so many of my January queries have gone unanswered and fear they were just deleted...though among them are some snail-mail queries with SASEs, so...so I don't know. As usual, waiting is tough.
I still feel like Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman some of the time, carpet-bombed by discontents and regrets. Hopefully the arrival of spring will help. It does get gloomy up in this neck of the woods at this time of the year.