A couple days ago book four went blithely sailing off to the editor. After revising, it was pretty dang good.

Yesterday, listening to beta readers catching a few typos, the certainty hit that I’d made a huge mistake. Sent it off to the editor way too soon. This was followed by the typical ‘should’ list that follows self-doubt.

Should have read it one more time. Should have spent a few more months, or maybe years, revising. Should just give up. Should have stayed in bed.

Today, the first chapter came back from the editor. With lots of little green comments. Let’s repeat that, shall we? LOTS of little green comments.

Worry and self-doubt was instantly replaced with that common ailment of all writers in the process of editing: despair.

I knew I should have quit writing when I was ten years old!

Of course, I’ve been through this process often enough now to know that being at the bottom of this dank, dark, writer’s pit is only temporary.

Tomorrow I’ll be excited to start work. Because in all seriousness, the little green comments are spot on.

Right at the moment though, I’m going to writhe around in self-pity thinking about what a horrible writer I am, for just a bit longer. It’s an excuse to sit in the hot tub.

Okay, that’s over with.

Because the story is going to be much stronger in a few days.

I swear though, if the husband points out one more typo, I may just take away his scotch. This was last night’s conversation as I was falling asleep:

Him: ‘You do know the women’s state prison in Idaho is in Pocatello, right? Not Wallace?’

Me: ‘Of course.’

Him: ‘You know that’s a seven hour drive, right? She can’t just hop in the car after work and make it there before the end of visiting hours.’

Me: ‘That’s why they call it fiction! If I want to move the whole prison to Wallace I will!’

And I did. The whole prison. Just picked it up and took it with me.

Hope the editor doesn’t catch that…