The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it.
~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895
I just sent off The Inn, the sequel to The Orchard, to the publisher for submission. Just now. I just pressed the 'send' button, and off it went, my heart racing.
It's incredible, how it feels to send a work out. Even by email.
Just to name a few emotions.
I'm going to bed. And saying my prayers.
What else is waiting there in the air?