Anne here, and I’ve just finished a book — finished in that I've written the full draft, submitted it to my editor for comment, and revised it with her comments in mind. It’s now gone off to copyediting and I’m celebrating — well, that’s the theory. Here's the cover -- pretty eh?
I always plan to do something wonderfully exciting and celebratory when I’ve finished a book, and as I’m in the last frenzied stages of the book, my head is full of plans for what I’ll do once the book is in . . .
Should I go for a little holiday? Some of my writing friends always take themselves off on a lovely little holiday somewhere when they put a book in. Or should I go a little lower-key and just invite a bunch of friends around to celebrate? Or maybe I should go shopping, splash out and buy something I’ve always wanted. Whatever that is.
But somehow, once the book is in, those plans just seem to evaporate. I look around the house, blinking like a new-wakened bear and see that the housework has banked up disgracefully and my office is a bomb — and not in a good way — so a week of washing and vacuuming, scrubbing and polishing lies ahead. Yay.
As well, I have a stack of emails to be answered, and a pile of little literacy books to be laid out ready for the printer and some new stories to write for series #8 of PageTurners. And there are bills to be paid and sorted through because my tax is due —yes, there's no end to the dissipation and wild partying here. Or maybe I'll just step out and enjoy the garden —it’s spring downunder —and admire the luxuriant abundance of healthy . . . weeds — oh the joy!