Few things feel better than having finished something you'd been putting off. In my case, it's been a couple of poetry submissions with December dates for deadlines. I dread cover letters. I hate listing publications and nominations, hate having to sell myself. It reeks of falsehood. Still, I do understand the necessity. Every once in awhile, though, something inside cracks and gives way. This summer the editor of one anthology I submitted to neglected to give his name in the call for submissions. His was the second cover letter I'd wrestled with in the same day, and full of frustration, resentment and the need for relieving humor, I addressed him as "Dear Mr. Evil Genius Editor." He took the poem. Go figure.
Today I have just finished getting the December submissions composed, printed, weighed, enveloped, stamped and finished. It feels good. Done. Complete. (A rare and luxuious experience for us INFP's.)