So, those that know me are probably aware that I have commitment issues. Â I like being footloose and fancy free. Â I can always (I hope) be relied on as a friend, but things that tie me down make me all nervy and shaky, and I may bolt. Â I even pursued a career that means I only have to be in the same place about 8 months of the year, and the rest of the time I can wander around the earth like a lost soul. Â A marvelously content lost soul.
I am also an extremely OCD perfectionist. Â Indeed, the only thing that made me comfortable with having to attach myself to one place for a WHOLE eight months of the year Â was the fact that in that place I could keep a Dyson. Â A sweet, sweet Dyson with which I could clean. Â Obsessively. Â
So now that I sound well crazy, let me get to my point. Â Which is that I’m starting TODAY on “final” revisions for Tempest Rising, and I am kakking it. Â Through this whole process, I have been saying, “It ain’t over til the fat lady sings.” Â But the fat lady has begun to warm up her tonsils, and this is the beginning of the end of me being able to continually bother Jane & Co.Â
I spend about an hour, every day, turning about various sentences in this manuscript or Tracking’s. Â I am like the Henry James of Urban Fantasy. Â Minus the genius. Â And the confusion over my repressed sexuality. Â But the whole point is that I get to tinker to my heart’s content. Â Now, however, the tinkering is not tinkering, but FINAL REVISIONS, and the choices I make are going into galleys, then some other stuff I can’t remember, but eventually into ARC’s and the FINAL PUBLISHED BOOK. Â AAAAGH!
Terrifying. Â I will be MARRIED TO MY CHOICES. Â And that’s a word that gives me hives. Â Marriage, btw, not choices . . . I enjoy choices. Â But marriage? Â AGH!
What if I miss a colon? Â Seriously? Â I may cry. Â A repeated repeated word word? Â That might bring on a heart attack. Â And what if, gods forbid, I one day realize there was SUCH A better way to put something, and I missed that opportunity? Â I’ll probably write it in the margins. Â And stare at it, disgruntled, for days.
So, yes, I am crazy. Â And yes, I am apparently being forced to commit to something.
BTW, I am stretching my neck. Â I am not frantically looking around for my running shoes. Â Really.