Good gravy, you guys. I wrote a book.
Put my ass-in-chair for sixth months on lunch breaks and weekends and late nights and typed out mounds of garbage until it kind of looked like a body. Then I threw myself a mental ticker tape parade, complete with a full brass section and kettle korn. Then I re-read the mound so many times that I hated myself more than ever. Then I took out the -ing verbs and the suddenlys and hated myself a little less. I like myself again, but the day is young.
Now's when I try to get it published (in other words, now is when I spiral deep and fast into paralyzing fear and self-loathing). I'll let you know how that develops.
I really love reading publishing blogs, blogs by authors, blogs by agents and geeks-at-large. Seriously, at times it's the only thing that gets me through. If you've ever written anything other than a check, you know what I mean. Your eyes are crusty and bloodshot, your Diet Coke is GONE, your confidence is GONER, and all you can do to feel better is frantically Google "people + still + like + chick + lit + don't + they + ?"
That's why I'm writing my thoughts here. If you have stumbled across this, you are either an acquaintance I have forced at knifepoint into my world, or you are a writer in bed with your meta-lifemate the laptop, crying into an empty box of Wheat Thins, looking for a friend.
Let's hug, OK?