Doh.

In the interest of full disclosure and hyper-transparency, let me introduce you to my brain. The rest of this x-ray appears to be Homer Simpson, but really, he has no brain; they just borrowed mine.

This past week I've been quietly happy about sending off the package to the lit agent. Actually seeing my first partial slide into the post office package bin was a relief. You know that kind of big college paper relief where you're not half as concerned about your grade as you are that you finished the dang thing.

And so I tripped blissfully through my week, knowing I had done good. Or at least followed through on a grand opportunity. I wasn't even expecting much. I was faithful, and it was good. That was enough.

Then last night as I lay in bed, a question came to me: did I send an self-addressed, stamped envelope with my lovely package? Because, you know, Shanna, that's Submissions 101--always include a SASE. Without it, you won't even receive a rejection letter.

If it weren't for the Tylenol Sinus PM I'd just taken, I wouldn't have slept a wink.

So the next morning, I pulled up said agent's address from my cover letter--and wouldn't ya know...I had misspelled her name on the salutation!

I fell over in a dead faint.

My husband revived me by passing a cup of kheer under my nose several times until the cardomom scent triggered my consciousness. But the shame of my cluelessness clung to me.

Then I ate the rice pudding. (I'm a practical person that way.)

Fortified by my soul food, I sent another note (this time with the SASE and the correct spelling), and decided that if my luck is in, she'll overlook my blunders--and if it isn't, then I've provided her with two handy reasons to decline any interest in me.

I'm so helpful.

Doh.