.... and i'm nervous. there is more than one aspect of writing a novel that reminds me of giving birth.
there's the long hard slog, of course, on the days that the words don't sing, that bloated feeling when you see the word count swell past whatever seemed manageable. the euphoria of finishing, of seeing the pristine pages piled neatly, black ink shining on gleaming white, feels to me exactly how i felt in the hours after my babies were born...almost as if i could fly. i finger the pages, glance through the chapters, let my eye linger on a particularly well-turned phrase.
and then it happens. i see a word repitition. i see a misplaced comma. i see a (gasp) fragment. oh no, i think, my baby isn't perfect.
so i'm giving myself one more fast go-through. yes, yes, i know maybe it's a tad obsessive but i don't have a deadline. once this book is gone, it's done. i'm sure an editor may want some changes, of course - i'm hoping an editor will - but there's no pressure on me to get it done in any particular time frame. so now to read... to savor... to tinker... to tweak.