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Dear Reader, Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Oh my ears, oh my whiskers, oh my nose and tail. What have I been doing with myself? Where have I been? I wish I had a good story for you. Alien abduction wouldn't be a bad one, though at least one science fiction movie of the last couple decades would tend to suggest even alien motherships have the internet. How about a plane crash in some deepwoods region of northern BC where there is no cell phone coverage? There are still a few wild spots left, I know. Of course, I don't have a cell phone, which would let me off the hook anyway in a plane crash situation. No Facebook: Hey guys you would not believe what just happened! No Twitter: Day 28, eating Bob. :P Just me sitting glumly under a tree wondering if I really should have left the ending open to a sequel and whether starting cold with no backstory or context is really going to work. The truth is... Okay, first of all, the truth is I just! this! minute! sent the new draft of The House at High Tide to Sally, so I'm done. Which obviously is true only for a given value of "done" but I'm giving myself that value, oh yes I am, can I hear a hallelujah, can I hear an amen. It is now in 1st person, it is only 10K words longer, it has more action, more drama, more specificity, less sitting around on butts pondering, in other words it is better. Not necessarily, you know, more prize-winningly literary or otherwise brilliant, but better, yes, I do believe so. Well, when I say "believe" in fact I mean "take on trust." Good lord! I'm sick of that book. In my wildest flights of imagination I think there must be writers out there who can finish a book without having to read the damn thing 16 times, who can send it off to their publishers with a lingering feeling of delight, who can read their galleys with interest and pleasure, but dude, I am not one. One of the very real down sides to getting published is having to read the same fucking book yet again, editing and proofreading and oh god, doing public readings from a novel you're sick to death of even if you've also managed to forget most of the salient points about it because you're on to two other things by then... But today is not a good day for burnout, especially since I am by no means guaranteed a contract for this book. Today is a good day for chocolate and wine, possibly shopping, definitely a visit to the gym so's to earn the chocolate/wine calories, and otherwise some form of celebration, like maybe stopping total strangers on the street to tell them I finish my book! I finish my book! Eeee! Of course, I also get to start thinking about the next thing. Remember those big grants I got? For turning "The Other Grace" into a novel? I'll have to dig in my notes to see if I can resurrect what I intended to do with that. Also, it would be really, really good if I could turn my hand to a couple of short stories, for palate cleansers if nothing else, though a wee infusion of cash would not go amiss. I'm not broke yet, obviously, but I did just buy a highly extravagant pair of shoes. And, yes, getting my name out there, keeping myself in line for award nominations, etc etc, blah blah blah. I am frankly sick of thinking about my "career", but I have to admit it's not bad as a motivational tool. Not the cattle prod of financial terror, but not bad. Anyway... Why do I keep turning to the dark side? I seem to be quite the Eeyore. Actually I just don't want to get too giddy, because I don't really want to be stopping strangers in the street. But hey. I finish my book! I finish my book! And I'm sure I had a Very Good Reason for not writing you for the last several weeks. I did. I'm quite sure. Hope you're well, Holly |
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