Judy and I have certain hope that soon, this week in fact, we will receive concrete evidence that someone besides ourselves and friends, someone with the ominous title of editor, will push her metaphysical finger and send us back our baby manuscript. It will be embroidered (or dirtied?) with red marks and strike-throughs and question marks, requiring our undivided attention.
Again we will be called to weep and to face our other, past, and written selves. Will we find "our baby" like one finds forgotten spoiled food in the back of the refrigerator, or will our finding result in "ahas," laughter and determination as we work on making this piece of writing the best it can be?
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