There isn't a drop of gypsy blood in me despite my Romanian heritage. At least, I don't think that there is. It would come in useful right now. If I couldn't see the future then maybe at least I'd have some skill in sounding as if I do. All I can predict is what will happen to me, and base it on my past.
My plan is to find an agent for my novel. What will happen is that my editor will return it to me with helpful suggestions to improve it and I will make them and it will be then be the best it can be. Full of zeal, because the editor I work with is, above all, a nurturing person who gives me enthusiasm for my work, I will start preparing my submission. Then, bit by bit, I will lose faith. I will start bringing my expectations down. I will think once again of self-publishing. I will look to publishers who will accept it but not give me the publishing experience I want because it will look like the path of least resistance. I will fall out of love with my story.
Hopefully, I'll get past that and soldier on with my original plan. I'll make myself believe in my work enough to reach for my original goals. Hopefully, I'll stop being my own worst enemy. Hopefully, I'll stop being the first person to say No to myself.
There have been so many anthologies I've wanted to write for this year, but I haven't been able to produce a decent short story for many months. I have some ideas, but they are, I'll admit, difficult ideas to convey in story form. One is about an erotica writer whose driving fantasy no longer works for her. This fantasy has been, in a way, her muse for many years, but now it's been used so many times that it doesn't get her off any longer. The well of her imagination is dry and no matter how hard she tries to summon erotic thoughts, her body remains dry too. Sometimes there is a trickle of desire, but the best she can do is wring a few drops from the old fantasy. What she needs is a new fantasy, something that will grip her imagination with the passion that the old one did, something vivid. She will try on many fantasies while she's with her lover(s), her eyes closed, her head tilted back, her body aching for release. And then one day the veil between the world of her desires and imagination will rip, and stories will burble up from her again like water from a mountain spring.