The first draft is done. Now it needs to marinate a while in its own juices. And since it's another creepy YA, those juices are all black and demonic.
I woke up this morning suffused with calm.
Now I can get back to life.
Be a real girl again.
The floor needs sweeping. Everyone's out of underpants. There's no more meat.
These are the sure signs of a book trance.
After I finished writing and saving and renaming it V1 last night, when I was just sitting in my chair, exhausted, feeling immeasurably pleased with myself, my husband walked into the room.
I looked up.
"Oh, it's you," I said. "There you are."
"I haven't seen you for a few days."
"I was here."
"But I didn't see you."
And then I hugged him.
He once compared being married to me to maintaining a classic Jaguar. It's pretty and interesting and of classic quality, but it's persnickety and full of surprises and falls apart a lot of the time. And you have to keep up the maintenance. And it's just a big pain in the ass in general.
So thank you, Dr. Krog, for putting up with me.
For making me put on shoes and eat Five Guys when I haven't eaten in six hours because I've been too busy torturing my characters. For making another pot of coffee when I've already drunk it all. For taking the kids... you know... wherever you took them for three hours yesterday so I could snicker and type in peace. For forcing me to write the first book and then giving me Stephen King's On Writing so I would know how very, very bad a book it was. And how to fix it.
I'm so lucky that I found someone who not only digs me but also understands me, helps me, and likes most of the things I like. Without him, I would never have found my voice and my calling as a writer, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
Writing is a lot like vacationing: It's great to go away and have adventures, but it's even better to come home.
It's good to be home.