The Vast Unknown of Being Done
Today, I finished editing my second novel.
Technically, it was my first, as I wrote it and finished it first, but I didn’t sit down to edit and finetune until the second was written, edited and revised, then edited again. Now, as I am weeks away from publishing my first novel, I can celebrate the completion of the other.
Big Ups to me, ya’ll.
Yet, here I am, sitting at my desk, at which I have sat for an average of 12-14 hours a day for the past two weeks straight, editing my first and second novels in order to cut their word count by at least 10%, AND prepare them for publication.
(Wait a sec, pizza guy’s here, and I’m not wearing a bra… Cue porn music.)
Man, what’s got two thumbs AND loves Philly Cheesesteak Pizza?
Back to my point, I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss these books, and these characters. I’m going to miss the finetuning process, because, though I dreaded it before I started, once I was actually knee deep in my own story, I was given a chance to relive it, to revel in the unfolding of it. Now, I feel like I did after reading the last of the Grave Series by Charlaine Harris.
It’s daunting to be back to square one again, looking at an empty page that expects me to fill it with words. Have I done it before? Yes, twice. Do I know without question that I can do it again, many, many times? I do. Still, the mountain looks much bigger from the bottom, my friends.
So here I am, ready to admit I’m in withdrawl of reading my own novels, and recognizing that the only way I’ll ever get to read another, is if I sit down and damn well write that shit.
Onward and upward, as they say.