Hey, I’m back! Sorry about the post drought. Life came up and roundhouse-kicked me in the face, but what can I say. I’m here.
I’ve been thinking, and if I can’t find the time to post TPT stuff, I should probably at least let you in on what the hell I’m doing with myself over here:
She’s out, my friends! It’s been a long journey, but I am a published author. Published by the good folks at Quiet Fire Books (you can check them out over here).
For those of you who are just peeking in the doorway now, I’ve been trying to write a publishable book for over eight years now. I wrote a lot of crap in those years, but now? This story, Forget Me, that I’ve been working on since September of 2014? It’s finally out there! *cracks open bubbly* HELL YEAH!
You may be thinking, “So… *clears throat* *checks watch* what’s it about?” Heh, got ya covered:
Sometimes finishing a story is like losing a friend. I’ve had the experience when I’ve read other’s books, and I’m sure you know the feeling too. You just read through some serious action-y stuff, things have started to work themselves out in the plot, and now you’re getting to those last few pages. You knew this moment would come. The realization set in for you when your bookmark was exactly midway between the front and back. You tried to put it out of your mind, but now you have to face facts. You have to say goodbye to Richard, the character you related most with, and his clumsy ways. You can’t step into that colorfully-described herb garden anymore. You can never live this story for the first time ever again.
Ahh, the old adage. I don’t even have to repeat it to you, and you wanna know why? Because so freaking many people say it.
It’s just another one of those things that make independent publishers like yours truly lose sleep at night and go into mania. And, y’know? That doesn’t leave much time for obtaining sustenance, being a person, functioning in society, writing back your penpals (I think I owe some people an apology)… things of that nature.
*sighs and groans of life leaving my body*
The past week month super-long day-melding period of time has been brutal. Countless all-nighters have been pulled. I worked my tail off, and finally… I’m ready for an editor! And I found one, too. As I’ve said before, I’ve taken little Sabine as far as I can go with her. Developmental edits are all taken care of, because I DID ‘EM (because that’s a totally different thing from copyedits and proofreads, BTDUBBS. I still need those, preferably done by someone who’s NOT ME). I’ve beaten the living daylights out of that story and now it’s looking pretty nice. Like, really nice.
We all have firsts.
The first kiss. Hasn’t happened for me yet. ASK ME WHY.
The first time you try to push a pull-open door. We’re all guilty of it. And if you’ve never, congrats. Have a cookie. *hands you a virtual cookie* On second thought, I could go for a cookie. I am the one who tried to push open a pull-open door. Walk it off, homes, walk it off.
Y’know how sometimes you have those days, the ones that make you wanna throw your sneakers through a window and curl up in your closet with a box of ice cream sandwiches? You’ve had them. The ones where you wake up with a pain in your neck, followed by your story ideas and characters not wanting to cooperate with you, and then there’s the fact that you have so much on your mind you’d like to have it surgically removed? Mmmkay, multiply that by fifty and spread it out over an entire month, AND THERE’S MY JANUARY.