I submitted my revised manuscript to the publisher a few weeks ago, and now I am awaiting a final edit, which is supposed to come in the next couple of days. I feel a little bit like a PTSD survivor, flinching and twitching, since we have been here before with this novel, so, so, so close, and then at the very last minute, the dreaded thumbs down arrives, and it's back to the drawing board. (I speak here in the royal we of course.) I do not think that's the case here (in fact I have a signed contract), but I cannot help flashing back to all those crushing moments. So many of them. Yesterday, I told someone that my novel had been rejected hundreds of times, and he raised an eyebrow at me. "Hundreds?" he said. Well, maybe not, but I should count. I should spend a day on this blog, trying to figure out how many rejections this poor little novel has suffered, so that I can offer up the official tally whenever asked. Let's see 15 years x 10-20 rejections a year, but maybe not every year. Yeah, the guy was right; it couldn't really be hundreds. But it sure feels that way.