Two self-addressed, stamped envelopes sat on my table ... yeah, the ones I sent with a query to agents. The envelopes were dog-eared, like the long trip from New York City was by pony express instead of the postal service.
I did not open them right away. They sat there for what seemed an hour. Looking at a clock, I saw seven minutes had passed. Seven, lucky seven, right? I tore at the first envelope.
A rejection. A form letter.
I ran my finger over the next one, wondering if I should wait until I had someone to share it with. Of course it would be good news. Shreds of envelope flew in front of my eyes, slightly reminiscent of Edward Scissorhands.
A rejection. A handwritten one.
I should be discouraged a little bit, right? I'm not, and I don't understand why.
I taped both rejection letters to the wall above my desk (with the other five.) Smiling, I went to make a sandwich. All that anticipation made me hungry.
I simply know my dream will come true. My novel will be published.