Write four lines of prose about: the submission.
Heading to the farmers market bright and early tomorrow morning, bringing 54(!?) pints of strawberries, three crates of tomato plants, two crates of mint plants, a crate of rhubarb, and a refreshed stack of greeting cards.
I'm pretty excited. Not as pumped up as Genevieve, who I'll be bringing with me while Maja stays here to do more garden work, but I'm totally looking forward to it.
Hopefully we're both able to get some sleep tonight.
A teetering tower of printed paper, heavy with ink and reeking of desperation, guards the far corner of his desk. Toying with the latest app on his phone he ignores it without any hint of guilt.
The submission deadline was three (or was it four?) months ago; surely the hopeful authors were checking their email, real mail, and phones daily (if not hourly) for a response.
He is in no hurry though since there was nothing in the entry guidelines about when authors could expect a reply - he had made sure of that.