I’ve grown a bit of what can only be described as postpartum depression in regards to my novel. They weren’t lying when they told me the illusion of grandeur would wear off. They said time would slowly whittle down the book to mere ink on a page, no longer the dreams that I aspired to build . . . and they were right. Part of me despises it now and holds it in contempt. I’m ready to move on–start my next big thing–but, much like my like my ragged protagonist, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. I’ll finish this if it kills me.

Today I found a quaint little packaged, taped and tied, gently resting against the front door. Its label declaring loudly for whom it was for and from where it had come. It was like Christmas morning as I scrambled for a pair of scissors and pulled back the flaps, but there came no golden light. There was no fanfare, no rejoicing in the streets . . . no, it was only a cardboard box filled with self doubt. There is a timid excitement to it, however, in seeing my name emblazoned across the front, a slight pride slipping between the pages.

It was never meant as an end; I printed them to make my hard work tangible–I printed them only for fear of never actually finishing. There’s errors and problems, issues and now begins the arduous task of correcting my mistakes and bringing back the fleeting magic. Highlighter in hand I’m finding need for change with every turn, marking each down with vivid color. Hopefully, soon enough, my book will have other colored highlighter corrections from those who are reading it. Then, once it’s fixed and changed I’ll be sending it off to the editor I’ve not yet found.

I know some will be disappointed that they can’t read it quite yet, I sincerely wish they could. Maybe I’m too protective, I know I am. Trouble is . . . I know it’s just not ready, but it will be soon. Promise. Until then I’ll be updating this periodically with tales of my progress–or downward spiral as my descent into madness is far from finished.