The Slim White Envelope

Yes, good news and all that came yesterday, yes it’s true. Today, though, there was a white envelope on the counter. It was addressed to me, written in my own handwriting. No one entered a return address—so it could have been lost, and never come to me, and it wouldn’t have mattered to them. The letter itself, standard enough. The answer, you guessed it, no.

Which means: I’m done, officially, seeking an agent for that novel I wrote. It’s over, because I’m not querying again. And it feels freeing. You can feel sorry for yourself and yet still be childishly hopeful at the same time.

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