I know I’ve sent a version of the ms out through my agents when I suddenly find myself with ample time to do housework. How floors are industriously vacuumed! Paperwork is filed, bathrooms bleached and bed covers find their way into the wash. And all of this as I try to take my mind off the thought of that ms – far from finished or worthy of attention, to my exacerbated sensibilities – making the rounds of publishers’ desks. It’s not even weighty enough to support a cup of coffee, I want to wail. At a mere 82000 words it’s half the length of a typical fantasy novel! How will it hold its own in any slush pile worthy of the name?
Ah, the perils of switching genre. I can’t see this thing – I’m too close to it – I have absolutely no idea what I’ve accomplished, if anything. There’s nothing for it but to scrub another patch of floor.