So I’ve finished my novel. I say “finished” even though I know it won’t be finished until it’s gone through many more eyes on its way to publication, if that is its journey. I already have a few ideas of strengthening that concept I added late in the book, adding in more dialogue to strengthen the readers understanding of some key themes, spending more time with my main characters and their story…only a few things. I fully expect it to need revision if it is published. So, it’s not finished. Clearly.
It’s a strange time. I haven’t even looked at the story since I sent it off…11 days ago, but who’s counting, right? Although I’m waiting on a response, I’m not worried or impatient. It will be what it will be. But this morning, I felt something else. I haven’t written in 11 days, and now my story feels far away. It’s time to start writing again, even if it’s a stream-of-consciousness exposition that would never be publishable, but tells me what happens to Janiya and Ashe, and their future…and the future of humans and Avians. Some say reading is an escape, but writers know that their stories are even a bigger escape.