I’ve got this novel that wants to be ready. This novel that’s close to show. I’ve spent much of the weekend on it—to the detriment of my unread and unanswered email inbox and putting away the clean laundry and only doing four hours a day of freelance instead of eight, which is really going to catch up with me on Monday. I just completed yet another draft of this novel’s synopsis and wrote some new pages. I have a little more work to go before I can show it and I’m sloooooolllly working through the pages today, taking my sweet time, not yet wanting to think of the moment when I hit the inevitable Send.

This morning there I was in the café, thinking, Oh wow I like this. Wondering, Should I like this? Worrying, It’s too soon to admit I like this. But this novel wants me, and I want it. At least it’s mutual.

At some point, and soon, I’ll have to let go. I’ll have to show my agent. And he’ll have me work more on it and then, once it’s ready, I’ll have to show a publisher. I’ll have to face the scary part. I think that’s why keeping myself writing it feels so safe and secure. Like a nice little igloo. It’s warm inside.

Does it ever get easier for seasoned authors? Every time I have to show something I’ve written and wonder if anyone will want to publish it, it’s the most humbling, frightening experience. If and when it happens for this particular novel, the submission process, I won’t be able to talk about it at all. Not until after.

But I’m not there yet.

Not yet.

What a relief.