I feel a bit like poor old Chatterton today. Or at least, lying picturesquely on a poorly lit bed with the remains of my torn up manuscript at my side, while I overdose on laudanum is looking increasingly attractive.
It’s the wait you see. I know, banging on about waiting again. It’s now five weeks since I sent away my revisions. Anna told me she couldn’t get to it for at least a week so I’m mentally adjusting myself to four weeks but still. Reading other people’s call stories and how two days after they sent their mansucript, they were rung and given the good news. Okay, maybe not two days but two – three weeks. A month at a stretch. It’s a month for me right now and nothing heard. Maybe I’m reading the wrong call stories??
So I am bracing myself for bad news. They’re probably working up a nice rejection letter for me – which would be good, don’t get me wrong, but obviously not what I want to hear. I know, the length of time they take to get back to you is different for everyone but I am feeling rather woeful about four weeks. I’ve been spoiled, I realise, by their fast responses over the New Year.
Ah well, nothing for it but to grind my teeth here. Have posted off my competition entries for the Great Beginnings Contest. And this weekend we’re down south for a 40th birthday. All good distraction I guess.
Anyway, thanks for letting me complain. I’d better give myself a sound slapping for such pathetic whiney-ness. Buck up old bean and all of that. Hope everyone has a good weekend.
Here endeth the whinge.