on Jane Friedman site:

A writer will say their book is on submission when what they mean is their tender heart is being served on a bed of hope to the publishing industry.

My own novel had been on submission for nine months when I took up knitting. I’d written the book during the pandemic and had been sure it would sell quickly and be my breakout success. Okay, I think that about all my books, but this time it was really going to happen. Except it hadn’t. Not yet, anyway. A year before, I’d switched agents, and if the book sold, I’d be switching publishers. I was feeling more than a bit discouraged about my writing career.

To make matters worse, it was Christmas Day, a time when as a Jew I always feel at loose ends. No festooned, needle-dropping tree gladdened our house. No fat ham crowded the refrigerator, waiting to be glazed. Bored, I paced my home office and happened to glance at a large cardboard box on a closet shelf. It was shipped to me years before by a kind poet after I recklessly commented on her social media post that I wanted to learn how to knit. It contained everything I needed and more: Needles of several types and sizes. Alpaca and sheep yarn. Rudimentary instructions and encouraging words.