Yes, I'm still here.

Hello, my very few readers!

Didja miss me?  It's ok if you didn't. 

I've been trying to avoid the news after enough exposure to know what level of destruction we're at but not enough to overwhelm me to tears. I've been spending my time focusing on the novel that has been itching in my head since the 80s.  I didn't have the maturity or insight to do it justice then.  Getting older has its advantages.

I've completed the first draft. This is amazing for me because I think the last thing I actually completed was my handfasting ceremony. (For the sticklers: I know handfasting is the engagement in certain traditions. Our vows were unique and it fits for us.)

I've always had a problem finishing things.  The anxiety of "doing it wrong" or "not well enough" is too strong for most things.  Case in point:  I was going through a divorce at this time ten years ago and was berating myself because I "wasn't even able to complete a damn marriage." 

Anxiety is a lot of things-- a bitch, disabling, overwhelming-- but it is rarely rational. As long as I complete "living" each day and do not cause injury to another, whatever I do, don't do, don't do well enough, what have you, does not matter.   I know this. I still cannot feel it.

I have various ways to resolve it.  I haven't hung a picture in forever because I have this crazy idea that it won't be placed well and the hammer/nail strike will result in a cartoon-style crack in the wall.  Irrepairable, of course.  If anything, my imagined screw-ups will be done with perfection.

So let's hand a picture anyway.  And do it "wrong" on purpose   Crooked, too high/low, and dent the wall somewhere outside the frame's coverage. Has the world come to an end?  Nope. Will it be criticized?  Maybe. Does that matter?  Hell no.

Sounds good, huh?  I can plan well.  But 80% complete is about as far as I get.

Getting the entire novel down on paper is enough.  It has to be. I told the story in full. DH was worried -- maybe still is-- that I will feel like a failure if it's not published.  My head says no.  My heart says eh.  The goal was to write.  That goal was and is under my control. Publishing has too many factors for it to be "my fault."   One member of my writing group mentioned that an agent somewhere will be as passionate about the finished product as we are and they will sell it to a publisher who feels the same.  The trick is to find the right combo; that is in the hands of the Fates.

Preliminary research tells me an adult contemporary fiction debut novel rarely clocks in at more than 100k words.  It happens, but it's the exception to the rule.  My manuscript (unedited.... and it needs editing) is a cool 182k words.  There isn't a logical place to split it into two novels. There's a "then" and "now" aspect that is too interconnected to stand alone with any satisfaction.

I've cut a subplot that wasn't intended and it's still over 161k. 

I have reached a tentative decision.  I'll have two versions of the manuscript:  in full, as I intended; and a shorter version for possible publication. I feel good about this so far and will see what unfolds.

Yay me!