Big White Envelope of Doom

When you’ve got a manuscript on an editor’s desk, you see life a little differently.

Every time you get a spare moment, you practice the elated sound you’ll squee when the editor calls to offer you wads of cash. Usually, you do this in your head, but occasionally it requires an actual squeal, hopefully not at your day job.

You imagine what you’ll do with the wads of cash you’ll have after you sell. Maybe you’ll pay off your college loans. Maybe you’ll pay someone to actually make your website look professional. Maybe you’ll quit your day job. Maybe you’ll buy a new car. Or a beach house. A big one. With a matching yacht. (We writers dream big.)

But, the flip side is that every time you see a big white envelope sitting on your porch when you come home, your stomach drops, your palms sweat, and you just know the editor has returned your manuscript in your Self Addresses Stamped Envelope, and all your dreams of giant beach houses and boat slips and the life of leisure go *poof* and you get ready to be in a funk for a few days.

There was a big white envelope on my porch yesterday. I saw my beach house flash before my eyes and felt the sting of tears. I approached the porch, hands shaking. I picked up the ominous white envelope.

It was a shipment of some nail polish I’d ordered.

Close one, but I’ve at least got a little while longer to practice my squees.

Related posts:

1. Funk