You are a small child. You have been to a birthday party and been given a helium-filled balloon. You take that balloon home and bat it around for a few days. You tie the end of the string to your bedroom doorknob. Over the next few days after that, the balloon gets smaller and smaller and sinks lower and lower. Finally it is lying in a limp and shriveled blob on the floor. Unless, of course, your parents decided to put it out of its misery (and themselves out of theirs) days ago and popped it for you and threw it away already.
I feel that my hopes about my latest Favored One submissions are at the pre-popped-but-just-barely-hovering-over-the-floor-stage. Some of them have been out for two months already. Granted, the most recent one went out via snail-mail maybe two weeks ago, and the one before that may have only been waiting a month, but I think that agency also promised a two-week turnaround, so I’m not hugely optimistic. True, Cricket Magazine‘s publishing arm did have Trees in the Pavement for a long time . . . before rejecting it. Although the point is they did get back to me eventually. But is every literary agency and publishing company going to do that with all of my books? I mean, I guess it could happen, but it doesn’t seem very likely.
This, it turns out, is the downside of email submissions: with snail-mail you can send an accompanying SASE and be assured of getting at least a rejection letter back, which I actually think is better than not knowing until all expectations have died of natural causes. There comes a time, apparently, when the buoyant, helium-filled hope that comes from waiting more than a week to hear back, turns into the deflation of assuming that I’ll never hear back at all.
But don’t worry. That balloon is still just above the floor. Maybe I’ll still be pleasantly surprised. Maybe?
P.S. Tech-moron’s note: Does anyone know why I suddenly can’t get my text to wrap next to my left-side photos anymore?