Back in the Saddle Again....

I finished my last novel sometime near October. Since then, I've been editing, submitting, editing, receiving rejections (^&!@), and editing some more. Now that I've finished the edits for my second MS and shipped it to my editor, it's time to start that fifth novel.
I sat poised at my laptop this morning, sweat greasing my palms, my hands poised above the keyboard. I jumped in. And reread what I thought was absolute crapola.
Then I said, "Keep going, Jenny. Keep going. Ya ain't gonna get nothin' done if you don't jump back on the saddle." Nice self talk for a writer, huh? I don't need no edumacation.
So, I pressed further, sweating out 7 painstaking pages. Each reread and spot edit helped, but didn't ease my discomfort. My doubt.
But, as Stephen King say (paraphrasing here) "Keep doing it, even if feels like you're shoveling shit from a sitting position."

The Drive

I'm a fairly prolific writer. Last year, I busted out 3 full length novels. All while taking care of my two very small children. This isn't including edits, of which there were/are many. Yes, the fruits of my labor, so to speak, paid off with the impending publication of my first novel.However, there are days when I the idea of sitting down at my desk (or couch, now, since my home PC decided to commit suicide) fill my stomach with dread. Of course, this extends into other areas of my life; i,e, cleaning the house. Or sometimes, I find so many things to do around the house, that I just couldn't possibly make the time to write/edit. It also works the other way around, BTW. Now, I'm making a career out of writing. I've also made a career out of being a stay-at-home-mom. So, why do I feel guilty when I spend my free time writing instead of cleaning or doing something useful around the house?

The Curse of the Anit-Climactic Moment

It's real.

When I read the words, "The Wild Rose Press would like to offer you a contract for your manuscript, THE WEDDING WAR," I whooped, hollered and slapped my desk so hard my hand sang like a canary on crack. I have waited twenty years for this day to come. My one secret dream: to publish a novel. And I did it. Holy canoli, Batman. But, it just hasn't seemed real. Until I got a copy of my cover this week. My book, my suggestions, my name. I did it. I acheived my life's goal.

I'm so grateful to be working with The Wild Rose Press. They are a bunch of great people who treat their authors graciously. But, I realized this wasn't the first time I felt the Curse of Anti-Climactic Moment.

When my husband proposed, and I began the wedding preparations (think Bridezilla times a gagillion), I became weepy with joy as I visualized walking down the aisle, heading toward the love of my life. So many times throughout the nine-month engagement, I went on an emotional bender just thinking of it. But, when the day came, the tears didn't. And I thought, WTF? I felt cheated.

Same story when I became pregnant with my children. The idea of holding my very first baby brought on a maelstrom of emotion, but when the moment came, I felt strangely detached. Don't get me wrong, I still look back to that night, staring at her, so tiny, so beautiful, so mine, that the wonder holds me captive, six years later.

I think I'm an anticipation kind of gal. Love the work-up to the event/moment/whatever. So, I guess I kind of win in the beginning. I get the glory and happiness in my anticipation, rather than when I grab the gold medal.

Maybe when I'm on the New York Time's Best Seller List, it will finally hit me.

Or not.