The story is finished and sent to an editor for a check-up. If my editor goes through it thoroughly, I hope for a decent number of changes and suggestions. I think my skills have improved since the last time I had a long talk with them, but I haven’t been working on a joint project for a long time, and my skills might be worse than before. The thing is, I am on my own, flying solo, floating without course, and I got no clue where I am going. It could be a dead-end, a cliff with jagged rocks at the bottom, or I could be grazing the clouds from newfound heights I’ve found. So, I am blind to my abilities, and whenever I ask my editors to clarify what they see in me and my work, I face a wall of silence. Perhaps they cannot explain to me in words, and they are just waiting for me to find out what makes me a good writer, or at least potentially a great writer. I know that they classify me among 20% of writers if I figure out what qualifies me to that stature. And the thing is, they see it, and I don’t understand it. So, I am doing my research and editing my works senselessly with the hope of moving forward and upgrading my writing. Perhaps that’s what’s expected of me. Perhaps that’s what I am supposed to do. I can only wait for their confirmation and suggestions on what’s the next step. For now, I gave them a story, and I am waiting for the results. And inside, I am dying. I don’t know what they say or how the story will turn out. One thing to note, many people who read my stories and novels said I have interesting ideas. That’s comforting, but is it enough for me to rise to the call of being a writer? I just don’t know.