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I have enough material for my first submission of Emily Rose.  The thought of sending it off for review by some heartless, faceless corporation fills me with the kind of dread normally reserved for the sluttiest girl in the slasher film (you know, the one that goes off by herself to shower or skinny dip in the lake next to the haunted campgrounds).  This publisher only requires the first 10,000 words for the submission, and since I have 22,000 rewritten, and a further 80,000 or so waiting for revision, I really don’t have any excuse for not sending it in.

I’ve steeled myself for the inevitable rounds of rejection.  It’s like when I’m sparring and I know that I’m going to get hit.  I can see the kick coming, I know that it’s aimed at my head, and I try to brace myself as best I can.  It still sucks when contact is made, but if I don’t gear up and get in there I won’t ever land any strikes of my own.  This whole adventure will probably end up with me garnering nothing more than a stack of form letters, but I had better pop in my mouthguard, put up my hands, and get in the cage.

I won’t get any knockouts sitting in the crowd.

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