Trembling hands clutched at the letter, threatening to shred the paper to pieces. I steadied my shaking fingers, breaking through the envelope’s seal little by little, careful to keep the paper intact. I already knew that this moment would be the defining one of my young writing career, and I wanted to save it forever.
I had sent in a manuscript. It was 50 pages long, thick beyond imagining in my thirteen-year-old mind, and I had put my heart and soul into those pages. The novel was titled Canterlee, and it was of the fantasy genre, another one of those stories where the characters face epic battles and certain death, but everything turns out all right in the end. To my mind, it was perfect.
I had printed out several copies, which my Dad was only too happy to pay for, and mailed them out to publishers across the nation. And at last, I had a response.
Seal completely free, I inched the letter from its envelope.