Like every novel writer, my goal is to get to the finish line with a manuscript I’m proud of—one I’ve spent weeks, perhaps months, carefully carving out before passing it along to my editor. There’s no greater feeling than clicking the blue send icon, depositing it into her capable, passionate, and at times over-the-top thorough hands (in a good way). It’s a rush of accomplishment.

Yet a nagging feeling slithers into the joyous moment. I should have spent more time on it—even though I’ve given it my all. That voice in my head. I try to push it away, assure myself it’s just my fatigue taking over. But absolute jubilation at what I’ve been able to complete is fleeting.

And there’s something about that time between when I turn my manuscript over to my editor and she delivers it back to me. That feeling it’s not enough hangs around like a mismatched dirty sock that fell off the pile on the way to the laundry room and unknowingly kicked to a corner, leering at me behind my back.

For my most recent manuscript I pulled an all-nighter to make the deadline—something I hadn’t done since college. The problem is I have no concept of time, so I thought I’d allowed plenty. By Sunday evening one weekend it had become painfully clear I wasn’t close to getting through all my own edits and re-writes. I had a long way to go so I kept plowing ahead throughout the night, determined to get it done. At six o’clock the next morning, I took a deep breath, attached the manuscript to an email, sent it off, and then went to bed for a couple of hours.

That was when the doubt started to creep in. The more time that passed without hearing back from her, the more my imagination took over, composing disturbing scenarios of possibilities:

Penny, what were you thinking? This needs a complete rewrite. This is not your best work. Your main character needs to be further developed. This chapter doesn’t make sense. I’m not following your themes. The timeline isn’t conceivable.

The possibilities were endless.

Would I be able to handle the crushing blow she was sure to deliver with her pages and pages of comments, questions, and redirects? Could I bear to look at the manuscript itself with red lines crisscrossing through it in Track Changes?

The daily pages on the calendar kept flipping, still without a word from my editor. Then I recalled she’d mentioned she was going to be away for a time. Hopefully that was the reason for the delay. But the days turned into a couple weeks with no word. I reasoned she was probably trying to figure out how to break it to me gently: This manuscript was going to take a lot more work.

Then one afternoon, the email arrived—the one with the sizable attachment. My gasp was so clearly audible, my furry writing companion lifted her head to gauge the situation. And the opening line was not what I’d been expecting. Instead of Penny, I’m sorry. I don’t know where to begin, it was:

“ . . . this is a great story, very tight and well written. It moved right along and your characters are well fleshed out. I felt like I knew them. Love the scenery and world building. . . .”

Excuse me, what? Really? I had to read it a second time. Then I could smile.

Yeah, this one will get a title and a cool front cover after all.