Final Proof … What I Remember Most

Yesterday my publishing house sent me the proof for my new book What I Remember Most, out in September.

This is the last time I will edit my book.  It’s my twelfth (!!) edit. I have no desire to edit it a thirteenth time.  In fact, if someone insisted I do so, I might move to a cave in Tanzania and take up yoga and I hate yoga.

The manuscript is now in book form. There should be few errors in the proof. I’m looking for any grammar corrections, spacing problems, accidentally deleted words, etc.

Hopefully I do not find any glaring errors, as that is very, very bad at this point in the publishing game.

Unfortunately, I have found glaring errors, my fault, in the past, and have wanted to take my brains out of my head and punch them for not catching the errors earlier – like in the previous eleven edits.

Luckily, they were fixable, I only stopped breathing a few times, and correctable. I hope that won’t happen again, but we’ll see.

It’s a relief to have that heavy manuscript in my hands. It is not a relief to know I have to very carefully, ploddingly, semi – obsessively read every word YET AGAIN, but the manuscript is finished.

All those words I wrote, 152,000 for this novel, another 40,000 written, then cut out, are now printed on 486 pages.

It looks like a book. It looks real.

This will be the last time I’ll ever read this book, unless I’m at a speaking engagement or book club, then I’ll read a few pages. But about 480 pages, I’ll never set eyes on again. Why? Because I’m done. It’s done.

I am often asked by readers to write sequels, particularly for Julia’s Chocolates. I never want to say never, but I have zero interest in writing sequels. The story, in my head, was imagined, day – dreamed, twisted, turned, and spiraled around and about, and I don’t want to engage those characters again.

I’m happy with What I Remember Most.

Do I think I’m a brilliant writer? I don’t. In fact, if pushed, off the top of my head I could name fifty books, by fifty authors, who are far more talented than me and given another few minutes, add fifty more.

But what I do know is that I did my best with my novel.  I poured everything I had into What I Remember Most, and came out the other end wiped out.

As usual, I cried and laughed over that book. I  interviewed many people who had been ripped through hard times as kids. I had a tour of jail, which was truly upsetting. I researched some tough topics. I try to go as deep as I can emotionally into all my characters, and as they are all troubled, it can be an exhausting time.

After I turned in this novel, in December, I wrote a short story for an anthology titled Our First Christmas, also out in September, and finished at the end of February. I then edited my novel again, which I received from production from my publishing house.

Since then, I’ve taken time off. I wrote a few blog posts, launched my Read Like Crazy Book Club on facebook, cleaned my house and hung out with my kids, my husband and the cat.

I skied. I am a terrible skier. I walked a lot. I sat and stared out the windows into my backyard and watched the birds. I drank a lot of coffee and bought myself a box of chocolates and worked through a few things in my head I hadn’t had time to work through.

I rested. I read. I went to lunch with my girlfriends and we laughed. I spent hours and hours of time alone. I got the characters out of my mind from the novel and short story and settled down.

And now, after this final edit, I’ll be on to the next book, due in December. A whole new passel of characters.

This morning a gang of free floating ideas roaming around in my head morphed into a plot. Most of it came to me on my run in the woods. (Uh. Jog. I don’t ‘run,’ I jog, and try not to pant overly hard.)

I have a few skittery thoughts: A farm, a vet, a surprise, a graveyard. I don’t know what will pan out, what won’t. I don’t know who will fall in love, or die. Or if anyone will die. It’s all a story mystery.

I am, however, so glad that What I Remember Most is almost done.

It’s about a woman named Grenadine Scotch Wild. She’s on the run.

I hope you like it.