Last night I submitted my manuscript to my first publisher. On their website, they say that it can take “from half an hour to half a day to reject a manuscript and a lot longer to accept one.” On their automated acknowledgement email they politely suggest you assume that you haven’t succeeded if you hear nothing after three months. I’m taking this to mean that if I hear in the next week, it won’t be good news, nor would it be if I never heard anything. [I’m really not sure of the grammar in that sentence but I’m too tired to work it out and the grammar check is letting it through, so…]
Perhaps I was being unduly superstitious, but I put in a huge effort to get the submission sent off yesterday. Mr Blithe was away in Canberra, I am deep in planning and preparing for Blithe Girl’s birthday party on Saturday, all of the family are either actively unwell or under the weather and I was running a sideline of interviews and questionnaires for work. It really wasn’t the best day to be working on my submission. But I have to get it done and yesterday was my self-imposed deadline. I managed to send it off in the tiny amount of time between putting one lot of children to bed, the return of another child from her evening activities and Mr Blithe’s return from the airport.
I felt like I had run a marathon. Several writers have suggested that first novels are rarely published and that every writer has one in their desk drawers. I didn’t want to leave mine lying there. Whatever happens, I’ve given it a go.