Some writers compare writing a story to raising a child.
You labour to bring into the world something that is in an intimate way a part of yourself. You work tirelessly to make the very best of it as you revise and edit. Finally the day arrives when you can nurture it no longer and you are obliged to send it out in to the world to make its own way.
The first time you submit for editorial consideration a story that was hard to write but of which you are particularly proud is terrifying. Will someone else recognise it for the remarkable piece of individuality that it is? Will your carefully selected judge be prevented from ever seeing your masterpiece by slush readers who only feel safe passing upstairs a traditional formulaic offering that's pretty similar to what their editor has approved before?
If the editor actually gets to see it, will he possibly find faults that you never suspected? Might he even mistake your diamond for cubic zirconium?
In such a parlous state your correspondent currently finds himself, having finally sent off his latest piece just yesterday. And I love it.
All the best, little one!