That’s right, I printed it up. Old school. Paper and a binder, just so I could see that I, in fact, had finished it.
Re-writes are done, spell-check and grammar check complete, went through the hard copy manuscript with a red pen checking for the odd typo, continuity error or repetitive phrase (how many times can someone roll their eyes, you idiot! And you’ve got to stop using dashes when you could use commas. Or periods. Honestly!)
And then I said a little prayer, drank the blood of an owl, painted my body blue and danced under the waning moon, lit a candle, rubbed some crystals, tried to find my chakras and whispered on the wind to the universe before I attached it, plugged in my editor’s email address, and pressed “send.”
Of course, done may only be “mostly done.” There may still be a tweak or two, but the bulk of it is done, done, done.
And now I look to the next book. And the book after that. And the four others I’ve got playing in the dark corners of my mind.
But first, I raise a glass. Here’s to me. Holy cow, it’s done. It’s really done.
Excuse me as I rock on with my bad self.