I feel at the tip of it all. At the top of the bowl where you give a nervous grin shift your weight to either eat shit or roll and ride your weight and physics--swooping forever. I've gotten two form (or near form) rejection letters from agents. I'm waiting on another three. The two I heard from were the two I was least excited about--that seemed to like only vaguely what I like (what I am). What am I? Whatever.
When I get the rest of my rejections, I'll send queries out to another handful of agents that might be good for my book. When they shake their heads I'll pump out the rest of the polished comic pages, and submit to publishers.
In august I'm leaving to sell posters to college kids. It's grueling, obnoxious, work, and commission based. I got my rough run outline. Texas mostly. There's more money in it for me this time. It means I might pay off the rest of the debt on these houses before the end of the year (I hope).
In the mean time we work. We eat shit over and over in the hopes that one day we'll succeed, so we can move on to the next trick.