Yikes, look at you.
I wrote you, little novel. Fifty-one chapters, or is it fifty-two? Over 71k words, I know that much, which means I exceeded my word count goal for you. Your Draft One was finished before November first, another goal reached. I sent you off to four betas and now. . .
So, ummm. . .
Took me nearly a year to hammer you out, forged with blood and sweat, baptized with an ocean of tears, you magnificent thing. . . what do I do with you now?
You’re done but not done; good, but not good enough, well-written but not quite wrought and meanwhile, the clock is ticking and you’re not going to write yourself which means I have to actually *do* something to you. Change you. Develop you but I don’t know if I have what it takes. . .
Bullshit. Yes I do. I just have to, you know, DO, ahhh . . . whatever.
And there you sit, waiting on me. You magnificent, unfinished thing. My saving grace, my albatross. My shiny little novel, I have to work on you but you seem so daunting right now. Almost like, if I fuck with you, I’m going to get fucked.