Just this minute, I finished a novel.
In the alphabet of my writing, it’s book Q. (After Patience, before whatever R is going to be.)
A little to my right, it’s emerging page by page from my printer.
193 pages. Garamond 12 pt. 56,789 words (or near enough).
So perhaps a novella.
I’m not going to tell you the title — not quite yet — not until a few people have had a chance to read it.
(You can guess, if you like.)
The printout is for Leigh.
As soon as I give it to her, I’ll leave the house — though I’m not expecting her to start it until later this evening.
I’m going into town.
I don’t like being there when people are reading something I’ve written. How could their reaction possibly be enough? If it’s intense, they should be hyperventilating. If it’s meant to be funny, they’d need to be on the floor, begging you to phone an ambulance. The writerly ego is ridiculous.
That’s why I don’t tell anyone what I’m working on until it reaches this morning’s stage.
I’m superstitious. I’m secretive.
But there comes a time when my first reader has to be invited in. When I have to say the title aloud. When I have to hand over the physical pages, or press send on the email after checking for the sixth time that it’s the correct version that’s attached.
Fingers crossed. Touch wood. Pray for me, etcetera.
Agh.
And there goes my heart, dropping away out of the bomb doors — getting smaller and smaller, and less and less mine, as it falls toward wherever it’s going to land.
This is the worst point in the whole cycle — although waiting for/hoping for reviews comes a close second.
It’s a head-mess.
I’m usually in a funk for weeks.
I think I’ve done something but I’m not sure if anyone else will think I’ve done the thing I think I’ve done.
That about sums it up.
As usual, it’s a strange thing.
It had to be.
How could a Q novel be anything else?