They do have something to do with one another.
I got to thinking this morning about how utterly ill I get whenever I send something out ... to anyone. Darcy is reading Liv Leigh for me, bless her busy little heart, and she is someone I trust to be both honest and caring with my baby.
Still, when I sent the first 75 pages, I ran for the bathroom, certain I was going to toss my cookies.
This is someone I trust. Someone who isn't going to give me a rejection letter or snide remarks. Someone who will give her honest opinion on what I've written (though, if it's garbage, I imagine she'll say that, too). So why do I get so worked up about this?
And how will I ever handle sending out queries?
I think I'll write a new diet book: "Lose 10 Pounds in One Week - the Unpublished Authors Diet of Querying" that will come with the warning -- "Participation in Novel Queries is harmful to your appetite and digestive tract".
Oddly, sending out the short stories doesn't affect me this way. Am I not as invested in the work? Maybe I'm not as in love with my characters. Whatever the reason, my stomach doesn't do gymnastics when I send them out (though I do have to admit that receiving the rejection letters from Womans World makes me a nervous wreck -- I've gotten personal rejections with editorial comments from them a few times so it's become an adventure to open them).
I don't have any answers. I don't really even have a point to all this rambling. It's just that I've almost finished the next bit I'm sending off to Darcy, and my stomach is already beginning to protest.
7 hours ago