Seven days ago, the agent that is reviewing my manuscript tweeted that it had been a long time since she read a manuscript she loved and was happy to report she found one.
Yep. I sure did. I allowed myself to think it was my manuscript.
My insides went from feeling like a calm lake to a hurricane over an ocean. My body shook from the inside out. I, along with the other authors who have manuscripts submitted to this agent, believed.
Twenty minutes was all I could handle. With nothing but my own hope--so little to go on, really--assuring me it was my manuscript, I had to stop. That level of emotion was proving to be dangerous. What if it wasn't my manuscript? At the height my emotions were flying, finding out it wasn't me would have been the equivalent of dropping a plane, cruising at 30,000 feet, out of the sky.
It's been seven days. All I hear are crickets. My email inbox is empty. The phone hasn't rang. But it was pure elation to know that a stranger--a stranger that can make things happen--loved my manuscript, if only for a moment.
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