I finished editing the final draft of my novel on a couple of weeks ago.  Last week, just before I left for spring break, I mailed the manuscript to my friend and beloved mentor, David Haynes, for him to (hopefully) give it the final thumbs up before I start looking for an agent.  My goal was to get the book in the mail so I could thoroughly enjoy spring break with the girls, and I admit, it was very pleasant not to have that anxious feeling for once.  I didn’t miss the agitated voice constantly whispering, “I should be writing. I should be writing. I should be writing . . . “ 

But now, spring break is over.  I’m back at home.  David has only had the manuscript for a week. It’s ridiculous to expect that he’s read it.  I know he’s at least started because he sent me an e-mail saying it had arrived and he was enjoying the read, but I know he’s busy.  And as much as I’d love to think he’s at his desk reading RIGHT NOW, that he can’t put the book down, I know that’s crazy and unrealistic.  It’s too much to ask. Too much to expect.  I need to relax, be patient. He’ll get to it.  At least these are the things I tell myself every hour when I check my e-mail and feel a little pinch of disappointment he hasn’t sent word.

But here’s my problem:  I’ve spent the last ten-plus years of my life working on this book.  Day in and day out, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. When I say the novel has become a part of me, I’m not kidding.  Just like I don’t remember the days when there wasn’t Harry Potter, I can’t remember a time when I DIDN’T think about Wheatie and Ralph Angel and all the other characters who have become my second family. I feel like I’ve lost an arm . . . No, I feel like I’m LOOSING MY MIND as I wait for David’s response because all of a sudden, I don’t have a story to work on. Well, that’s not true. I actually have three stories I’m thinking about, but I’m back at the beginning. It’s horrible. It’s actually worse than staring at a blank computer screen at the beginning of a chapter because at least then, I could look over my shoulder and mark my progress.  This feels like I’m floating out in space without being tethered to the capsule. It’s all black.  I can’t tell if I’m upside down or right-side up. 

See this picture of my office?  

Okay, I admit, it’s still a bit junky, but this is the cleanest it’s been in MONTHS!  During my full-court press to finish the novel and during the entire time it took to complete the edits, I couldn’t see a single square inch of the floor for all the paper and crusty coffee mugs and Fiber One Bar wrappers and piles of books. Do you know why it looks this neat now?  BECAUSE I’M NOT WRITING!!!!!!!!! For the first time in ten years, I have time to pay bills and do the laundry and answer e-mail and IT’S KILLING ME!!!!!   

Which is all to say, I’d better hear from David soon.  Just kidding.  What I need to do is start the next book. That’s the only thing that’s going to save me. That’s the only endeavor that’s going to make me feel like me again.  I’ve been running a literary marathon for over a decade. Now that it’s over, this phase anyway, I can’t expect to wake up the next day and not run, right??????? I’ve been conditioned to run. That’s what I do. I can’t take this free-floating.  I completely understand why actors desperately swing from one movie to the next.  It’s the primal need to feel productive, to be fully engaged and maybe even a little over-extended, to feel like you’re alive and doing what you’ve been put on this earth to do.  The only feeling that could be worse than what I’m feeling now would be long term writers block, the kind that goes on for years.  I think I’d shoot myself.

So tomorrow, it’s time to get back to work.  I’m packing up my computer and heading to my office.  I’m going to shut the door and only come out for lunch.  I’m not foolish enough to expect that I’ll start writing. I won’t put that kind of pressure on myself.  Besides, I’ve been at this long enough now to know how it goes:  I’ll go easy. Start slow.  I’ll read some poetry and maybe a couple of short stories. That should quiet my mind enough for me to hear the new voice, the first word, maybe even the first sentence. An image will come to me and then one of the characters I’m thinking about will step forward, offer his or her hand, and I’ll be off to the races again. After that, waiting for David’s comments won’t feel like lying on a bed of nails.  I’ll have someone else tugging on my sleeve.

 I can’t wait to see where I go.  I can’t wait to meet my new family.