I sent my manuscript to a publisher. It's off. No turning back now... it's theirs for the judging. And all I can do is wait (six weeks to four months) to see what they think.
There are a million critics inside my head, all of whom are insistent that those envelopes are a waste of postage and you faithful few are the only ones interested in what I have to say in print. But thankfully, I tuned them out long enough to print and seal the envelopes.
Those voices have kept me silent for three years now, which is how long it has been since I wrote that story. Today, they didn't win. I did. Even if nothing else happens, from this day forward, I did what so many writers never, ever do. I sent it off.
And so, if you belong to the select few to whom I promised shoes and a bag if I turn 30 without doing what I just did, then I'm sorry to say, you'll have to buy your own shoes. I followed through.
Three copies, to three publishers. You heard it here first.
And someday, maybe you'll hear it somewhere else, too.