I'm sitting at my computer, staring at a 56,410 word novel, and it isn't even done yet. If you had told me three years ago that I would be working toward publishing by first fantasy novel when I was fifteen, I would have laughed in your face and told you to get your head examined. Yet here I am, typing as if my life depends on it on a story that has gone places I never would have imagined.
When did it happen?
When did this story go from a tale that I wrote on for personal enjoyment to a novel that I want to publish?
When did the characters leap from where they sat in my head, forming, and become what they are now?
What happened to my little fairytale?
As I near the end of working on 'Sarco' I feel like a mother who is watching her firstborn pack up his room and prepare to leave home...forever.
I thought that I would be maniacly triumphant.
Instead, I'm on the verge of tears.
A few more months to write. To edit. To give as much perfection as I can before my adventurous young story goes off to face the world. A world which is not always easy on books. And there's only so much that I can to prepare my budding novel to face it.
Don't get me wrong, I am happy. There is a sense of accomplishment. But whoever thought a book could leave a hole in my heart as it prepared to leave?
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