Fourteen rejections in a row since the last positive peep (the request for the full), not counting the ten I just wrote off. Four this week. All form rejections, so no way to divine meaning from them. As the number of rejections piles up and the number of queries outstanding dwindles, the doubts grow. Maybe I can't write. Maybe I can write but it makes no difference in this lousy economy. Maybe I should have held myself to writing a straightforward, banal whodunit instead of going all angst-ridden Martin Cruz Smithy. Maybe this whole writing obsession just isn't worth the aggravation. Maybe I could get rid of it with hypnotherapy or Freudian analysis or yoga. Or something.
Blah blah blah.