i was up until one in the morning again, printing out another FINAL version of the manuscript. yeah, yeah, you've read me say that before, and i know even as i type that word, this might not be the final FINAL manuscript...the one that gets sent to jenn... i promised don he could have one more read-through.
sometimes don's relationship to my writing makes me realize you really do have to be careful what you wish for. when i was married before to a horrible man who didn't appreciate my writing, i wished fervently for someone who would. don is everything a writer could want in a life partner but sometimes he forgets the story decisions are ultimately mine. but he cares so much and has such an amazing eye for detail and has such a finely nuanced appreciation for the sound of language... the editor in me can't resist giving him another go.
so there it sits, on the blue-tile table, in all its pristine glory, gleaming white pages, shiny black ink, a Story that wasn't there until i made it up, my own little miracle of creation, the Word made Paper, if not flesh. i brush the top page with my fingertips, straighten all the pages in a pile. i gently ease and smooth, touch and brush with all the flutter of a newborn's mother.
the pages of the previous drafts are piled on my altar, waiting to be burned at the equinox as an offering of thanksgiving for this Harvest, and a prayer that this Story shine in the world like a fire in the night.