I just submitted a query for “Finding Kate” by mail.
I’m not going to tell you who it was. And, believe it or not, I am not going to rail against their outdated, costly and burdensome requirements.
Because, walking out of the post office, I got it.
I stressed out over this submission, more than I normally do. In great measure, that was because this is one of those “dream” places, a place where if they ever gave me that acceptance call, I wouldn’t just be happy, I would be thrilled, certain that my career was in good hands. They are THAT right for me. But it was also because this wasn’t just an email to be copied and pasted (which, if you haven’t done an email query, takes a good hour, and should not be minimized in any way). It was a package to be printed and stapled and binder clipped and SASEd and sealed in an envelope. It was work.
In the printing process, I found tiny typos — a font mistake here, an italic missing there — that I never would have seen on the screen. I printed, I checked, I confirmed. I tapped the pages against the table to line them up perfectly. In handling my documents, I was reminded of the seriousness of what I was undertaking, and of what I was asking them to do.
Next, I had to walk out the door and drive to the post office and face yet another decision: what method would be best? First class? Priority? Priority Flat Rate? Express would be too needy, too self-important, and — let’s be honest — way too expensive. I went with a five dollar flat rate priority envelope. It will be there in a couple of days, right before the long holiday weekend. September. A good time for beginnings.
My hands shook a little as I sealed up that envelope. I admit it. It felt huge. It felt monumental. A little piece of me in there.
I get it. I shouldn’t do all that for just anyone. Thanks for reminding me.