Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
After two and a half years of research and writing and struggling through The Great Block, the last book in the series was finally done, beta read and sent to my agent with Chick’s stamp of approval. There would still be edits, the publisher might decline to offer me a contract again and my readers might have moved on to a more reliable author… But at this moment, none of that mattered.
I’d done the damn thing. Conquered my white whale. Climbed my unscalable mountain. The characters I’d fallen in love with when the series started were finally out of the purgatory I’d placed them in. Their story was finished. And the ending had been satisfying for all, including the author.
That wasn’t the only thing going my way lately.
With the remainder of the insurance check and my tips, I’d knocked out a few more things on my home improvement list. I’d had the gutters upgraded, adding leaf filters so they didn’t need to be cleaned as often, and replaced the ugly black plastic framing my empty front garden bed with scalloped concrete pavers that looked very curb appeal-y. I was even thinking of buying some juniper bushes and hydrangeas and actually planting something in the bed.
On top of that good news, the team had decided my design would go on the car, and Gene hadn’t argued about it. I’d been in shock until Chick admitted he’d let the men hear Mom’s voicemail while I was getting some desperately needed practice on the racetrack. I should have called him out for being manipulative, but I’d wanted my theme too much to be upset with how he managed it. Mom had gotten everyone on the same page a lot faster than I ever could have.
And now the same document I’d had open the day I drove her to the airport was finished and on its way to being published.
I’d have to keep telling myself until I finally believed it.
“Hot damn, I’m done.”
“There she is,” Chick cheered. “Good to have you back, sunshine.”
Bernie tossed back the last of her drink and then set her glass down with a thud, staring at me in disbelief. “This is not how I imagined you’d react to finishing your book, August.”
“Have you ever seen those Writing is Hard memes?” Chick asked dryly before I could respond. “I mean, I write alien pulp for teenage boys and men who are secretly still teenage boys, which is disturbingly easy. But August actually puts effort into getting her stories right. When we lived together, and she was in ‘the zone’? There were times I could see steam escaping from the top of her head. Times I had to bodily move her from the computer and put a plate of food in front of her, or take her to get a massage because she’d spent so long in one position, she’d actually injured herself. I’m not even mentioning that time she had to create an ancient language from scratch, because that was a weird sansween for all of us.”
I snorted. It was called conlanging and he’d done it for a few of his earlier space sagas, he just liked to tease me about it.
“And after all that effort, she has to hand off the book and let it go,” he continued. “Imagine giving birth and then being forced to toss your newborn into a mob of strangers who could love it or murder it bloody right in front of you.”
“Too graphic,” I muttered around my glass.
He pushed on. “Since she was in labor for several years instead of months this time, she may have a harder time snapping back.”
I felt a twinge of sympathy in my lady bits and looked at the only mother in our trio. “Sorry about the gestational appropriation, B. I’m well aware that actual childbirth is much harder. But he’s not wrong about the feelings. This book is the worst, but to be fair, every time I send one in, I have a mini panic attack and a short crying jag, followed by a bout of mild depression until the publisher tells me what they think.”
I didn’t share the rituals of self-flagellation I put myself through once it was on the shelves. There were times it was better to keep some of your crazy to yourself.
“Damn.” Bernie was still staring. “Well, you must love it if you willingly go through this over and over again.”
“I must.” Now that the deadline wasn’t hanging over me like the sword of Damocles, I could start to remember that again. How lucky I was to do what I loved for a living. How much I enjoyed creating worlds, and the challenge of making all the pieces fit together.
Now if only I could figure out the other puzzle currently confounding me. “Have either of you noticed anything off about Wade lately?”