I’m thirty-six months pregnant with my first novel—the insomnia and swollen fingers has got to go. Not to mention the perpetual heartburn from cheesy dialogue or the nausea of plot holes. This pregnancy has jumped the shark—I need an intervention!
I should be the confident mother, waving her paper child off to school. I’m up to double digits on requests from agents and editors but I still have that nagging feeling that it’s not quite ready. I have a tight-knit
group critique group who offer babysitting feedback on my impending
bundle of joy.
And yet…I find myself staring at the computer and sulking over a craptastic hook that refuses to shine.
This morning, I left in a huff, making up some urgent errand. When I returned, I found this on my desk.
At least, I have the world's greatest birthing coach.