Finito.  Complete-o.

From the moment I started thinking about this book to now is exactly one year and 9 months.  I didn’t actually start writing it until December 2009.  You can do any math you want to do but I’m going to refrain because it might throw my back out.

127, 367 is how many words this novel is as of five minutes ago.  That’s 28, 363 words more than the second draft.  That’s a precise number.

I know.  That was math.  But that was easy math.

This book is now editor ready.  It isn’t perfect but it’s at the point where if I keep messing with it I will be wasting my time because the second I get an editor (and I WILL get one) they’ll have specific things they’ll want me to work on.  Editors are very specific people.  I’m super pleased with this draft.  I’m proud of it.  I’m proud enough to submit it to a throat cutting editor.  Gulp.

Next step is to get myself an agent.  This requires a brilliant query letter.  As we’ve all observed plenty of times in the past, this is not one of my shining skills.  I make this promise to myself: I will kick fucking ass at the query letter because my future depends on it and there is nothing more important to me right now than getting this damn book published.

I don’t actually need to expend energy agonizing over that tonight.

Right now, this minute, I am going to enjoy the feeling of having finished writing my book.

I am going to pretend that all those petrifying loud pyrotechnics out there are for me.

I don’t think many people can claim I sit around “basking” in any possible way.  I’m basking now.  Unashamedly.  With glittery eye.  Tomorrow may be complete shit.  That’s okay.  I’m in the moment.  The moment is really fucking awesome.