Writing a book is serious spiritual work. At least, it should be. I am exhausted.
I finally finished the FINAL edit of my Indigo sequel last night. Hearts Broken. A novel I had scheduled to finish last year. That’s right, last year, in September. I was helped enormously by the lovely Kate (I say, as if you all know her – and you should,) who read the whole thing through at an impressive speed (hindered by the fact I was still rewriting sections). And she was just the editor you want – picking up typos and grammar issues without ever making suggestions as to how the story might be better if I added more of this or less of that etc. Nothing is likely to make a writer more furious, when they are sensing the approach of the finish line. Thank you, Kate! You were so precise and compassionate! Sometimes I suspect Leonard Cohen wrote his songs about you without even knowing it! I know no higher praise.
So my last pass was simply for flow, to make sure I hadn’t repeated too many phrases, and to check for Smashwords compatibility. And yet, it was so much more. Bleh!
Stuff always happens when you write a story. You may not realise it at first, but sooner or later you have to acknowledge all the little pieces of your soul leaking out into the page. It’s only when I reach the end that I realise that my whole self has somehow changed just a little bit. Things have been spoken that were hidden even from myself. I’m altered by telling my story just as you will be, even if ever so slightly, by reading it. So tonight I am in a little meltdown, body and mind. Tired and elated and just a little bewildered.
Is my relationship with this novel really over? Is it time to hand it over to others? Very soon it will be. I’m already detaching with a mixture of sadness and relief. What an epic inward journey it has been. It’s also taken so much of my evening hours (with a day full of baby). Now I can enjoy my husband! Yay!
Except we’re both blogging.