I got a peek at the final version of my book, which is on its way to the printers for release on November 11th. Wow. What a feeling. It's interesting because I feel like there should be some sort of balloons or streamers going off around my head, or there should be someone who is jumping up and down for me about it, besides me, myself and I. But, in the end, perhaps as it is with birth and death, a novel is an extraordinarily private happening in all its stages. That seems like it wouldn't be so, given that the whole point is to have someone else (or many someones) read and share in the thing. But reading, also, is a private happening, so it's confusing. At least to me. That said, I am happy with the final product. I am ready for it to be in the world on its own. It is the best possible novel I could have written, I think. Not perfect, but flawed in its own charming way. What happens next is no longer up to me. That creates both a relief and some vague panicky feelings that there will never be enough of what I need (heroine? readers? good reviews? attention?) to keep me lifted up out of my own despair.
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