My manuscript arrived safely at my editor's home on Wednesday night--she shot me a quick email to let me know ... "On page 14--Ronald, that asshole." So, at least she liked the beginning.
I wanted the experience of mailing it to be special--not just stuffed down the gullet of any old mailbox, so I drove to Mailboxes, Etc. with my manuscript cradled next to me, filled out the address label, carefully placed it in the no-rip bag and handed it to the old sourpuss who stood impatiently drumming her fingers on the counter. She was a bit disappointing but that's okay I did my part.
When I walked back into the house, manuscript-less, something felt off, the way it does when I come home after dropping Jake at Shampooches. Hollow. And, that's how I felt about my book being on its maiden voyage, unattended--hollow.
For more than two years I've been working on this book, writing if not every single day, very close to it, carrying it with me everywhere I go physically or psychically -- vacation, to sleep, to my daughter's, Starbucks.
I'm hoping it'll be shipped back next week so I can make the necessary rewrites and begin sending queries to agents.
And having the book on "vacation" gave me a few days to play with other ideas for the next book. And the one I've come up with has been simmering for quite some time, so I'm jotting down notes, making character sketches, figuring out names, -- I'm excited!