It's scary returning to my story. For the past month, I've been able to read other people's books without daydreaming about my own between pages and losing sleep over my dialogue and my character cutting. Without comparing. Without regret and impulsion and depression. It's been a little piece of bliss for a writer who's missed reading. Just reading for the love of it.
What if, after all the re-work, re-jigging and re-imagining it's still going to be re-jected? &%$#. So I'm scared to walk into my iced-over, shut down office and pick up my pages. I don't want to do it. My book is much better in my head than it will be when I open the cover. Maybe I should leave it there, in the cold wasteland of my office, and be done with it? There's something to be said for a quiet winter death, slipping off to sleep in the cold and getting buried under inches of frost. It's sort of romantic and adventurous -- a better ending for my manuscript than it might get if I let it out.
I'll give myself until noon to decide what to do. If I knut-up, you'll be the first to know.