Yesterday I submitted the latest manuscript. There's always this elated feeling, combined with terror, whenever I hit that "send" button. I'm not sure what that's about. "Here's my creation. Don't judge me harshly." "Here's my blood, sweat, and tears. Tell me if I've wasted the last year of my life." "Please read this. I hope it's of value to somebody somewhere." Well, it is what it is, and it's out of my hands now.
I sent my husband for ice cream when it was done. Either I'm trying to reward myself with sugar for having hung in there, or I'm hoping to slip into a diabetic coma and not hear the results...
I gave myself last night off, at any rate, and today I'm combing through my half-finished starts to see what to work on next. Because writers are gluttons for punishment that way. Regardless of editors, insecurities, reviews, sales, or rejection letters, words have to happen.
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