Could it get any slower than tediously slow?
I have decided that a decelerator clock hangs directly above the circumlocution slush pile on the desks of agents and editors. Lately, I have experienced a recurring nightmare (undoubtedly triggered by a number of harrowing stories vented by other writers) regarding the length of time it takes to get a decision on a manuscript.
Did someone say as long as a year?
Fine. In the meantime I will write a few novels while I wait.
On a happier, less impatient note, I found out last night The Yard Man finaled in the Romantic Suspense category of the RWI, Where The Magic Begins contest.
Waaaaay too happy to frown about slowness today.
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