It’s done!

Okay. After eight months and end­less rewrites the book is done.  It’s due on my publisher’s desk in two days. I’ll give it one more read. I’ve read the thing—it feels—ten mil­lion times. So I change the mar­gins. Change the font. Set it in a binder so I can read it on paper, not a screen. Any­thing to make it look dif­fer­ent, feel dif­fer­ent, as if I have not read it before. I even go to my local library so I can read it in a dif­fer­ent place. That can some­times help. Great. I find a cor­ner chair, and after stalling by look­ing at a fas­ci­nat­ing book on dis­play, I open my man­u­script, pen in hand. I’ll give it three hours, I tell myself, and since it is Sat­ur­day, maybe we’ll go out tonight. Cel­e­brate the book being done.

I start read­ing. I don’t get past the first page. OMG! It’s not read­ing well. It does­n’t move.  It’s awk­ward. No flow. It’ll stop any read­er dead by para­graph three.

I go home, turn on the com­put­er and start rewriting.