I spent six glorious days hiding out at a friend’s house, working on my nineteenth century novel. I’m sure I’ll share more about the experience once I settle back into my everyday routine, but for now, I’ll say this:
I finished my second draft!
That end point seemed so far away even a few months ago, when I kept getting stuck and interrupted, when I hadn’t yet gotten Henri out of France, and when all my resources were being poured into Forest Avenue Press. Which is still the case. But this break from family and working on other people’s words reconnected me to my own novel, which I started three-plus years ago. Maybe longer? I’ll go back and check one of these days. But for now:
Sure, I have spots to clean up, timelines to rework. More revising and editing to do, and some continuity fixes due to the major changes in the story. I put an 1858 scene before an 1857 one, so I have to change one or the other. And my first chapter, which I’ve written countless times, needs another major pass.
But oh the quiet, the sunshine, the coffee, the friendship and conversation at meals, the hummingbirds flying over to feed above my head on the beautiful deck, and the uninterrupted kid-free sleep, and the progress. The words, the words, the words. Everything came together in a different way than I expected–and this way is better.
This morning I caught back up with the family and made my big announcement about finishing this draft. My six-year-old piped up and said, “Now you don’t have to work on the computer any more! Yay!” And then she hugged me.