I think I just published my book.
What a weird feeling.
Part of me is sure that something’s wrong with it: it’s going to turn out to be the wrong file, or there will be mistakes that I didn’t catch, or making the company name “General Directions” will get the owners of “Global Dynamics” mad at me . . . and that’s just the typical stuff of being a high anxiety person. If any of those things happen, I’ll deal with them, and it won’t be the end of the world.
Another part of me sort of desperately wants to cry. This year has been the worst year ever. Cancer, heart attacks, death on all sides — we’ve barely recovered from one blow when the next one hits. And through it all, I kept writing. I don’t know what the crying is from: I guess I am both proud of myself and really sad that my mom isn’t here to be proud of me, too. She would have been, though.
It is strange that I outlined Ghosts eleven months ago, and thought I was writing a light, fluffy romance. I don’t think it turned out that way. Still, it’s amazing to me that right now, having read the whole thing at least a dozen times in the past week, I still love it. I love my quirky physicist heroine who is mostly a coward and doesn’t believe in happy-ever-after. I love my easygoing, videogame-playing flirt of a hero who grows up despite himself. I love my plot which has nothing to do with people being stupid and everything to do with people making discoveries. I love the secrets I’ve hidden, the details that readers find out 80% of the way in, that make them say, “Wait, what?”
I should probably write a longer blurb for it, and maybe I will. But maybe I’ll give it a month.
And meanwhile, Dillon is waiting for me. But first, laundry (I think it’s been a month!), dishes, planning for Christmas cookies, and finishing putting up the Christmas tree. Eh, and maybe checking on my Bitizens. My tiny tower won’t run itself