I made it, guys. I submitted my short story to the anthology, and so now the waiting game has begun.

Yes, this means the nerve-wracking, stress-inducing spiral of ‘What the heck did I do?’ has started. All the worrying about how I could have improved the story before submitting it is rumbling in my brain at the moment, and the pit of my stomach feels like a family of snakes has invaded it, coiled there ready to pounce at any moment.

You’d think I’d be used to this by now, the part of the writer’s life where he submits pieces and waits for news, good or bad. Somehow, the waiting part is the one thing I’ve never grown accustomed to. As unpleasant as rejections are, I understand and respect them because they help me improve my craft.

But the waiting has no purpose other than to drive me insane.