While Lynne’s away for a couple of weeks, I’m afraid you get a substitute. Be kind, please…
There’s satisfaction in finishing the writing of a novel. You go through the draft and the revisions, and finally there’s that sense you can breathe a sigh of relief.
Of course, that’s wrong. We all know it. But when I finish those revisions and print up what I hope is the final draft, I like to fool myself. But having just finished that draft and the printing this morning, allow me my moments of complacency.
Now it goes to my partner to read. If she likes it, then it’s on to my agent, who may have some suggestions. Then to the publisher. If they like it, then I’ll learn how an author can become sick of a book they’ve loved to create (actually, I know, as I’ve also been going through the proofs of my upcoming novel).
The way we writers continually delude ourselves is quite amusing. Well, it would be if we didn’t do it every time. The revisions are complete so we can breathe a long sigh of relief and forget about the book.
Ah yes, the edits. Once these are out of the way it’s all over, nothing to do until publication.
Oh God, here are the proofs. Aren’t I finished with this damned thing yet?
Of course, all the effort is worth it in the end. That’s what both writers and publishers tell themselves. Those endless hours, crafting, honing, creating can be handily forgotten when you hold a copy of the finished book in your hand.
But for now I’m happy to skip all those intermediate steps and just remember the sweat I’ve put into the point where I’m ready to show someone this manuscript in the belief that it’s good. All the discarded words, the chapters that didn’t work can be forgotten and I can revel in what I have…