I’m finishing up this round of edits on the nightmare book THIS WEEKEND come hell or high water. And it might be high water because we have had non-stop rain since forever. All the creeks have escaped their bounds by many feet, with the big creek five feet deep or more of rushing water. I’ve never seen it so high.
But the point is: this weekend I am getting this novel out to my last round of readers for final tweaking (hopefully, at this late stage, nothing major raises its head) and then it is going to the motherloving copyeditor.
Therefore. I have had nothing to blog about these last few days. In addition, said nothing will probably continue until I finish. Unless you want to hear about how my butt is sore from sitting on the futon with my computer in my lap, or how grumpy my husband is with me for my distraction and general disinterest in real life. Don’t want to read that blog post? I don’t blame you.
The end of a novel is a rush. You climb the mountain, climb climb climb. It feels like you never get anywhere, climbing itself becomes a way of life, you forget there even was a goal. Climb climb climb for fucking ever one foot then another blah blah blah—
And then BAM. You’re at the top! The holy shit how did this happen Top!
So what do you do? Welp, you throw down a snowboard and go careening down the other side. Naked.
I’m in the careening stage.
It’s pretty terrifying, actually.