I'm almost finished with revisions to the story. In the end, that long list of things I thought I needed to change dwindled down to maybe about 30-40 little tweaks. The three problem threads have been expanded slightly - problems solved, in other words. Revising is like neurosugery: you have to be careful not to cure the disease yet kill the patient in the process. I think I've succeeded in saving the patient. She was never really in danger, anyway.

Just a few days ago, I finally summed up the courage to read the long paragraph of critiquing that one of the Clarion instructors wrote on the back of their copy of the ms. I don't know why I'd been avoiding it, except that maybe I was so afraid that the praise they'd given to me in class couldn't possibly have been correct - I'd been hearing things, when they said "I wish I'd written this story". But: they wrote it on the back of the story. It's there in black and white. I wasn't dreaming. And they also wrote this:

"I will enjoy thinking of your Clarion class going forth, like the 400,000, to destroy genre."

I don't know if "The Four Hundred Thousand" will ever be published. On Monday I'll send it out, and promptly emotionally divorce myself from its fate so I can devote myself to the next project. But for the next few days, I'll let myself be as proud of my writing, and myself, as I can possibly be. I know this feeling won't happen very often in my "career", so I'll take it when I can. It may not happen again.