Monday, April 28, 2008


I can't say "second-guessing" because I've already done that. I've lost count how many times I've second-guessed my manuscript. (Here's a photo of a 1906 playing of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night.")

Photo: The British Library.

The wait to hear back from the editors is both exciting and worrisome. I know that each day that goes by without a rejection is a good one, but I still fear they will decide, in the end, my story isn't "worth it." Or maybe they'll like it, but someone up the chain won't (I could deal with that; at least it'd mean I had promise).

One of my fears (which is too descriptive in my imagination to ever be really real) is that they whisper to each other in the hallways, behind shirt cuffs-- "Did you read that? Wasn't it a load of crap? I can't believe she thought it was ready for us." I can see the cuff detail (white with navy pin-striping) and a golden lock of hair (I have no idea whose hair, of course). I can hear the snickering at the conference table as they discuss it. I can smell the scorn (ok, not really).

See? I am thinking/worrying about this too much. Must. Write. Something. Else.

Incidentally, I don't know if I've ever had to spell "twelfth" before, and as I tried many different (and wrong) variations, I realized it's such a curious word, reminiscent of elves and Druids. Or am I thinking that because I'm re-reading Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley? (I read that when I was 13; I'm understanding a whole lot more now, but it's not nearly as fascinating as I remember.)

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