Not so with publishing. You can work hard. You can write a good book. You can pen an effective query letter (even if you have four pov characters). You can get an agent. You can do all this and more, and still, there is no guarantee.
Sometimes, it gets to you, this out-of-control way of being. Despite having children who say adorable things like, "But why can't we watch "Bridesmaids? We've had 'the talk'," or friends who match you curse word for curse word or an iPod full of ridiculous running music like "Sexy and I Know It," --despite reading Augusten f*cking Burroughs, who makes you laugh for real, out loud, even when other people are looking--sometimes during this process, you will actually yearn for the glory days when your Civ Pro professor routinely made people cry. (Mostly boys.)
At these times, it's easy to forget why you're doing this. That the year you spent writing your novel--when the kids left the house each day for hours and your husband followed them and you ignored the uptalking chirping of PTO operatives--was one of the best years ever.