Last night, the husband and I finished the read-aloud of my very first first-person novel. For those of you who haven’t read about my revision and editing process before, yes, I make my husband read my projects aloud to me before I consider submitting them. It might be an actor thing, but hearing everything out loud ensures that the words all flow well. And the plus side is you catch a bunch of tiny errors (though instead of through) by reading the story out loud. Your brain can’t gloss over a missed letter as easily if you’re trying to speak or listen to the words you are reading.
But finishing the read aloud of this project was… anticlimactic. It’s not that I didn’t like the story. I think it’s the best thing I’ve written so far, and I’m super excited to start submitting it. But we finished the last page, packed up and headed over to the theatre for our evening performances. I’m not saying that the whole world should stop because I’ve finished editing a project so now it’s ready to go out into the world. But it does feel like something should happen. Like my computer should shoot streamers out the sides. Or the kitchen faucet should suddenly pour Champaign. My phone should ring, and the president should be on the other end of the line to congratulate me on working super hard to make some sort of a contribution to society.
But nope… nothing. My bank account didn’t even get pudgier.
I know there is a long way to go before that book is done done. I have to submit it and hope an agent wants to represent it. Then they might want me to do edits before they submit it to publishers. If I’m super lucky, a publisher will want it, and then they’ll have me do more edits before finally it becomes a real book.
But still, the first major hurtle, finishing all I can do on the damned thing before I send it out, had been completed. And my computer screen didn’t even have a congratulatory video of over-excited kittens to congratulate me.
Being an author is a tough row to hoe.