I’m pages away from being finished with my current work-in-progress. By now, I’m thoroughly sick of it. Sad, but true. It happens when I’m closing in on the finish line for a long project.
I want it over. I feel as though I’ll scream if I read what I’ve already written one more time. I’m ready to wrap this sucker up, toss it at my wonderful editor, and let her throw up all over it before she ships it back to me again. I think I tell her that every time too, although I do it in much more tactful language (I hope).
Comparing writing a book with giving birth to a child is so cliche’, but it’s sooooo true. You’re scared and excited when you’re building up to the big day. Your manuscript is bloated, you look like hell, everything hurts—but once you’re on that table it all boils down to, “Jesus, would you just jerk it out of me already!” Okay, I’m taking a deep breath. Didn’t mean to get so graphic, but maybe you can follow what I mean.
Once it’s over, I’ll want a drink or two to unwind. I’ll swear this is the worse job in the world and ask myself why, oh why, would I want to put myself through it again.
But a couple of days later, I’ll forget about all the pain and be eager to conceive that brand new shiny project, and off I’ll go again like that crazy woman in Arkansas who just gave birth to her 18th child!
Deep breath. It’s almost over. Damn, don’t I at least rate a morphine drip?