I am sitting here in utter despair. My stomach is in knots, my hands are clamping into fists. I feel as if I will faint, either from anticipation or from utter mortification. Why? WHY? WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHY?
Oh yeah, I forgot I haven't told you yet. I submitted the first five pages of my story for other career authors to critique. I am going through a virtual rainbow of emotions here. It's been about twelve hours and I have yet to hear a peep out of anyone. Don't they know they are torturing me?
But then again, ignorance is bliss, right? If they don't say anything at all I can imagine them sitting there in utter awe. In utter despair I haven't made my writing available before now. My writing is the answer to world peace. All hail, Sheena!!!
Or they could be wishing hail to rain down on me and knock some sense into me. What was this woman thinking, obviously she doesn't belong here. Let's kick her out of the writer's community so she doesn't taint us with her presence.
See I have become schizo to try and cope with the waiting. Now I am off to do a paint by numbers of the Sistine Chapel. Happy Trails to you, until we meet again. Which might only be after they stop making me use the jacket that makes you hug yourself.