I have printed. Well, I’ve printed what I have so far. I am not yet done with the first draft—must finish the scene in chapter 19, one more short end-note of a chapter to go at the end, one or two more chapters to insert into the gaping hole I left in the middle… not to mention the frenzy of line-editing that will take place before I send this in. But, for now, I have 179 pages. They exist in the world in physical form for the first time ever, and there’s no denying it. Look! Here they are sitting on the table:

I should have dressed them up for you. Or dressed them up for me. I guess it’s like when people dress up their dogs in those little sweaters and take them on a walk in the park. I almost want to carry my pages outside and parade them around Washington Square. “What’s that?” someone might ask, a dog-walker or a hippie guitarist or a drug dealer or an NYU student, and I’ll say with pride, “It’s my novel.” And they’ll nod and say, “Cute hat.”

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* Yes, my novel is female. Obviously.