Twenty-five pages. That’s it.
Only twenty-five pages stands between me and the birth of my next novel.
It’s been an excruciatingly painful process. I often felt I’d never get to the end of this grueling, horrid, seemingly never-ending rewrite.
Why this particular rewrite took so darn long I’ll probably never know. Usually I breeze through, with only the occasional sticky bit to slow me down.
But this rewrite had me drowning in a sea of molasses. If it weren’t for those rare islands of clarity, dotted about here or there, I’m not sure I could have made it through.
Unless something catastrophic happens, like a cold, I’ll have it done in two weeks or less.
Then off to the editor it will go.
Or maybe I should hang on to it for a month or so before I send it off.
Time to bask in the warm glow of the look-what-I-accomplished feeling sounds mighty appealing right now. Once I get the manuscript back, all marked up with needed changes, that lovely glow dims a bit.
But no need to worry about that yet. I’ve still got twenty-five pages of rewrites to do, which gives me twenty-five pages to make that decision.
Ta-ta for now!