Was today. It came and I pressed send. Two things happen to me when I send in a manuscript. First all those things I thought I had to get done (which are truly a way for me to avoid writing) just don’t seem all that important. Second, I get a melancholy feeling. I believe the melancholy stems from the book being ‘finished’ (a book is never ever really finished–an author simply has a deadline to stop working on a manuscript) and the book is now out of my hands. The book is sent away to be judged and evaluated and ripped apart–to return with lengthy editorial letters.

Well, it’s finished for today. Tomorrow–well tomorrow I begin revising another project.


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