As in… when the heck is this <@&* thing really complete already?
I still don’t know.
I’ve been saying Shadow of the Portico is “done” for so long now, I have rendered the word meaningless.
Sixty-three years ago, when I wrote the scene in which my artist character must decide if her painting is done or not, I didn’t understand her dilemma nearly as well as I do now.
(I exaggerate the timeline there, but only slightly.)
Emilia realized that once her self-portrait was done, it no longer belonged to her. It belonged to the world. Or in her case, it belonged to her betrothed, a man whom she hadn’t met, and didn’t really care to meet.
But why wouldn’t I want to finish my book? Why do I still see little things to change here and there? Why do I edit edit edit until I want to fling it across the room?
I can guess the reasons. Perfectionism. Fear.
Here’s the bottom line, though. I am blessed with having my friend, Olivia Folmar Ard, herself a very talented writer, edit my book. And she is sick of me crying about it.
“Just give it to me already,” she says, and I feel tremendous relief.
I also wish she didn’t live several states away so I can perch myself on her shoulder like Snoopy having a vulture moment.
No, stop. It’s done, Becca. Complete. Fin. I promise.
Of course, I can say that because I’ll have one more round of edits to go after my editor and beta readers look at it.
(Speaking of which, I need to start buying chocolates and wine for those readers so they say nice things to me…)
After THAT, it will be COMPLETE. And I’ll hit the Publish button and it will belong to you, Dear Reader.
Maybe I’ll get you chocolate, too.
We’ll just rename this whole post C is for Chocolate, because, honestly, that whole “Complete” thing is scary as #&@^.