About 18 months ago, I decided to start this fantasy novel thing.  I’d had an Idea, and it wasn’t letting me ignore it (much like the two-year-old I also had), and I thought I’d better just write it so it would stop pestering me.  Much to my surprise, I seem to have cobbled enough stolen hours together to finish it.

I’m not done yet, but I am coasting into the last chapter, and the big climactic scene went in the file today.  I also have three pages of notes on Book Two, and a rough idea of Book Three, and there’s Four and Five, if I get there.  Cart, horse, I know.

In a couple of weeks, I’ll be editing.  I. Love. Editing.  I know I need to rewrite the whole beginning (of course, and for the second time), and the rest needs continuity and serious improvement.  I wrote it an hour at a time while the little girl was at preschool two mornings a week…in all honesty, it’s probably a hot mess.  So much room for improvement! That excites me, because I’m really, really strange.  

My goal of a readable draft by Christmas is doable.  I’ve been hanging out admiring myself today over that.  I know that when the handful of early reader copies go out for big picture feedback, I’m going to be a nervous wreck.  Then rewrite, then figure out the crazy publishing world and see if anybody wants to take a chance on it.   If not, figure out the crazy self-publishing world, I think.  

Thanks for hanging around to see what happens.  You helped.