Evidently, typing "The End" does not a novel make. I forgot about the little details like a final draft, which, if you've ever written a novel, is never REALLY final.
BUT, after several weeks of editing, she's as done as she'll ever be...and I mean done as in forwarded to the editor by way of my agent.
I forgot how much FUN this part is. Nothing like your heart needing a jump start with the paddles every time the phone rings or the e-mail dings.
But wait...everyone in New York is in the Hamptons this time of year, right?
And do I really want to get the phone call that will crush my hopes? At least while I was writing the thing, hope was my constant companion. Now I'm stuck with the twins, dread and self-doubt.
I miss hope.
The only way to get my best friend back is to start another book. Fortunately I have three good ideas. I'll just take the weekend off to host another pool party or two and then get started...