It just so happens that I read this on the same day--or evening--that I sent a completed middle-reader manuscript to my agent, the esteemed Abigail Samoun. The manuscript is 50,126 words. 231 double-spaced pages. A dozen or so characters. A few ounces each of blood, sweat, and tears. And a two-word title: Black String.
I like this one. Love it, I suppose. I've loved writing it. I felt like I was really grooving most of the time, the way I feel while carving a good slope on the mountain. On the edge, barely in control, but not quite crashing.
But now it's done. I attached the file and hit send. Now my manuscript is in the hands of the beast, and I have to sit back and see if they like it or not. And, worse yet, I have to dig down in myself and find the guts to start another. I have to stare at the dreaded blank page.
I've got lots of ideas. I might write a sequel to Seth, since I have a deal on the first one. I might actually push one of my many imagined characters into the world, such as--no, it's too early to talk about any of them.
Anyway, the endeavor is complete. For now.
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