Transitions

Writing reminds me that most of life doesn't have beginnings and ends, but circles. Sending off a manuscript is a thrill (riddled with terror), but about five minutes after I hit the lovely send button, I was humming, checking out Facebook, wiping crumbs off the counter, taking a breath, then opening up the manuscript I'd set aside when I'd plunged into the one I just "finished" after a long summer (I'm trying to ignore the wide edges of spring and fall) of a major revision. Through September I could feel myself getting closer to what I like to call the end, peering down hard at the paper. My manuscript was riddled with signs I'd posted to myself: Fix! Make stronger! besides all the cross-outs, a hallmark of every go through. I kind of welcomed those signs marking "Bad!" like a child approaching a puddle. Here's where I could jump and play. I liked reading lines I thought were good, but the places that called for repair let me be careless and carefree for a bit again, less of a person with a blue pencil, on the alert for errors.

It's good to look up and find the trees showing off colors, pumpkins on porch steps, and colorful candy on store shelves. Yesterday I bought some gummy bats sprinkled with sugar. For a friend, ahem. And I'm glad to have a manuscript to work out where there are lots of vague and messy places, lots of spots where I can play. So much that's off that I haven't yet written notes to myself re here's a place to fix. Because that's true of every phrase. Let the rollicking begin. And maybe a bit of candy corn with my tea.