"Did I get a rejection?"
Such have been my questions each day—whether spoken aloud or not, and in varied forms of expression—ever since October 28th, the day on which I could begin to expect an answer on the latest submission of my novel (and also, coincidentally, the feast of St. Simon and of St. Jude, who is the patron saint of the impossible, but I digress). I daresay I shall continue in such manner until December 28th, a significant date almost solely because it means I may then query concerning my novel; or resubmit, assuming my submission was not received. But hopefully by that time I shall not have waited six months in vain.
Four and a half months seems a long time indeed to wait and already I begin to grow impatient. A quick acceptance would of course be the best, but I have remarked before that a quick rejection is next best. When the time draws out, I begin to wonder: have they not had time to read my submission yet? Have they looked at it and are considering it? Or did they even receive it?
For the moment my future as an author hangs still in the balance.
