7'300 words

Finally.

My paper about long-term survival of neurons born initially after an epileptic insult is now submitted! Or rather re-submitted, to the excellent European Journal of Neuroscience. I submitted it originally in the beginning of august, and it was returned to me 4 weeks later with suggested changes from two nice reviewers that had read it more or less thoroughly. We have now done most of the changes suggested, "we" being my immediate supervisor, my professor, and myself. My supervisor and professor have rewritten parts of the text, and made a nice and convincing coverletter to the receiving editor. I myself have mainly retaken/manipulated pictures of pretty cells for two of the six figures. Now all figures look just perfect (if I may be so modest and impartial). Hopefully they will answer me within the next few weeks that they are absolutely thrilled to have the honour to publish my magnificent paper, with all possible speediness. And also phrase it exactly like that to me. Unlikely, but you can dream can't you?

My supervisor was thrilled when I called her with the news that the manuscript was finally submitted again (despite her stated neck-pains and a crying baby). I am glad I could thrill her. I guess I am supposed to feel the same. Relief that I have taken the next step in getting my first very own scientific paper published in a distinguished journal. I am afraid though, that despite all attemts to bring out the feeling (since it was reluctant to arrive spontaneously when I pressed the 'submit'-button), I still don't feel anything about it. It is weird. Maybe it is because my virus is bugging me so much, making me tired and fatigued. Maybe it is because I don't want to celebrate before I know they have accepted it. Or maybe because I already assume they will accept it. Or maybe because I just don't care about it right now. However, I assume I would be emotionally affected if they refused the paper though, so I seem to care somewhat. I just feel it is something I want to get overwith, something not so special. Eventhough it is supposed to feel so very special. Somehow, I just don't feel the paper is "mine", "my work", and I don't know why. It really is mine. It just isn't "me" working at my office. I just feel it is a place I either volountarily go to, to know that I am alive, or the place I force my physical body to move, out of plight, ought and should.

I hope I soon will reclaim my working pride and spirit, and stabilize it within.