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Five years ago I sat down with a legal pad and wrote out a long outline. I worked on my story on and off, changing names, changing subplots. As I grew older and had more life experiences, my characters grew older (and younger) and their circumstances changed. I kept a notebook in my bookbag while I was at college and wrote down my thoughts. In the middle of lectures I would pause to write something down at the top of my notes. The characters felt like a secret circle of friends that I, and only I, knew intimately.

A few months ago I shared the novel with my husband. A few weeks later, I shared it with some close friends. After some feedback from my trusted circle, I took out a couple of things but mostly worked on adding to the novel--almost 10,000 words. I polished and culled and rearranged and spit-shined the thing until I was (almost) happy with it. Then I narrowed down my choices and picked a publisher whose vision seemed to fit my work. I sent a query letter and my first three chapters off and marked my calendar four months from now--their listing promised a reply within four months. If I didn't hear from them by November, I could send a polite letter of retraction and send the manuscript to my next choice of publisher.

Three weeks after I mailed my query, I got an e-mail. They wanted to see the full manuscript. After I picked myself up off the floor, I called everyone I knew, then I spent a few hours doing a final read-through, correcting a few minor mistakes, rewording a few rough-around-the-edges passages. The next day I entrusted it to the U. S. Postal Service and hoped for the best.

Now all I have to do is wait. Waiting may be harder than actually writing the damn thing.