So it’s been two weeks since I typed the words The End. on my first book I’d ever finished. As Steven Pressfield say’s in The War Of Art, it did feel like I’d just slayed a dragon that had been kicking my arse left right and centre for two decades easy.
But of course, that dragon was immediately replaced by the next fire-breathing monster, that being anxiety. “What if everyone I show my book to hates it? I’m opening myself to criticism. No good Aeryn, no good.”
Waiting two weeks, sitting on it, letting it rest as Steven King recommends in his book On Writing (but not six weeks, as he ideally recommends), so I can kill all my darlings, has been bloody hard. And in the interim, been writing every day on the second book. Tomorrow, I’m going down to Officeworks to print it out, and spend the whole day reading it, all 89,000 words, in one go if I can, red pen in hand. By the end of the week, I want it in my editor’s hands in the UK, before I again go over it, and then send it out to my beautiful beta reading team, to further identify problems etc.
But all day today, on the eve before edit, I’m a knotted ball of excitement and fear.
Christ. It’s really happening.