I just sent the most recent draft of my novel to my brother for his comments and felt enormous relief. Why? I wondered. It certainly wasn’t the draft of my dreams; I was deep into angst about it. In truth, I loathed every word. The night before at dinner I had moaned and groaned  to my husband about failure. All this work and what did I have to show for it?  Well, I’ll just go into therapy I told him. (R. has been here before with me and knows that all he can do at this point is make little humming sounds to show he’s paying attention.) 

But the next morning when I went to the post office and mailed the manuscript overnight delivery to my brother I felt so much better! I’d taken some kind of action. And those 251 pages were at least out of the house.  

I love tracking packages – USPS isn’t as much fun as Fed Ex (which seems to updates almost hourly –) so I was thrilled when I found out that my manuscript had arrived in Newburgh, enroute to Millerton, New York.

And I suddenly started to feel more loving toward my characters. (Did they have a good flight? Were they okay?)

I got a very sweet email from my brother last night. He was half way through it and liked it.  So a brief reprieve. But I’m keeping optimism about selling it on a low burner. The publishing industry, along with the rest of the economy, isn’t doing well – staff is being cut left and right. Will there be any editors left in New York for my agent to send this to? 

Here’s one of my favorite quotes about writing a novel (and I can’t remember the source): Writing a novel is like running a marathon, but they keep moving the finish line.