This morning I sent the new book to my editor in New York.
It’s gone. It’s off my desk. It’s out of my to do list. Off it went.
My editor is the first person to read one of my books. Unlike some authors I know, I don’t have a beta reading group. In fact, I’m paranoid about anybody reading a book before my editor does.
This book was difficult. It was difficult from the very beginning. It was tough and we struggled, the book and I. It wasn’t that things were going wrong. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it was a difficult book to write. It was a challenge when I even thought of the premise of the book. Plus, I only had three months to write it.
The book made me cry in several places and that’s always a good sign as far as I’m concerned. If an author can’t be moved to tears or smile, laugh, or feel the emotions of the characters, then the reader won’t be able to, either. At least, that’s my humble opinion.
After I had become so emotionally enmeshed in a book the letdown is pretty fierce. I used to go through a period of two weeks of being so down and depressed that I could hardly stand myself. Nowadays, however, it’s a one or two day down in the dumps kind of thing. I’m tired, and it’s an emotional and physical tiredness because I pushed myself to work 15 to 17 hour days to get the book done.
At this stage, when I’ve looked at every word from every angle I’m too close to the book. I think it’s good, one of the best books I’ve ever written. I know it’s different. It certainly involved enough characters and each one of them was fascinating.
Bottom line, any reader has to care about the characters and their story and with luck I have done them justice.
However, I am not capable of writing my way out of a paper bag right now. I can’t even bear to look at my production schedule and see what I have as deadlines.