It's not all bad...

...but it might as well be.

The story I was so worried about? The one that was making me go through all sorts of strange mind-trips and doubts?

I sent it in this morning, and got an email from the editor a few hours later:

"Wow -- that was fast! And it's good, too! Must say, you're really proficient at this. I would love to have one of your pieces in every issue.

A relief, no?

No.

Why the hell did it come on a day when I'm so angry/depressed/wacked out that it means nothing to me?

Not her fault. It's my fault. She's an excellent editor, and never messes with my stuff. I like her, like working with her.

But she can't -- and won't -- say the Magic Words. She's not in a position to say them, in either personal or professional categories.

I give her credit for trying, though.

Tomorrow's another glad-handing, "networking" get-together. I do not want to be there. But I have no choice.

The Nice Guy "me" seems to be away. All I have left is the side of me I don't particularly like.

Bah.