In my writing I’ve reached the stage of heightened expectations again. The umpteenth revision of my novel has led to another better version, and I will embark on the plunge again in the publishers’ jungle. So: three chapters printed with one and a half line interface, synopsis polished up, short and not too eager accompanying letter. Enveloped, stamped, addressed. Walk to the mailbox. Ploomp.
Then the letters will come in: “We have received your manuscript and will attend to it with the utmost care. Not immediately, however, for we are very popular and hundreds of manuscripts pour into our office. So be patient. All in due time.”
This means months of waiting, and eager walks to the front door. Until one day a thick envelope lies on the doormat: rejected. “We have read your manuscript with great interest. But . . . .” The excuses are many and varied.
In the meantime I have taken up an old project, and try to get into that story again, into what it was that I had wanted to bring across. It will take a few days, maybe a few weeks. And then the fire will be rekindled.
I will write, write, oblivious of snooty letters from snooty publishers.