I’ve now given my new manuscript to about six people, and only one of them hasread it! Aaargh! And some of them have had it for months now. To a writer, the only thing that’s worse than dislike of one’s work is indifference towards it. All I know is that I am ready to publish this book, to start the final revisions necessary to get it into print. In my heart of hearts it’s finished; I want to polish it a bit, get it out there, move on. And it’s just not happening right now. So I guess I have to prepare myself for a long round of mostly-useless query letters, cold-call submissions that go nowhere, and months and months of waiting. It puts me in a foul mood.