But at least I am ahead of Julius Caesar and know exactly where they are.
Which makes it worse - resting, perhaps content of having finished it but definitely petrified of having failed.
I have not looked at my novel in weeks, not since I received a rejection. Naturally, I expected that I would get one (well, a lot more actually) but the automatic five-minutes-after-I-submitted rejection was annoying nonetheless. What I did not expect was the effect it had on me - not upset or sad or indignant or whatnot, just hit with a surge of self-doubt. Normally I regroup within minutes and move on, so by all accounts I should have sent a query to the next agent on my list within a few days. But nothing, which is why I have also neglected this blog and writing in general.
Anyone else experience this sort of inability to move ahead? Somehow uncertainty, filled with possibility, was so much kinder.
