I have written a book. I won’t beat about the bush: it is a bloody good book.
It has crocus bulbs in it. A piano. Under-sea trains. A terrified horse running in the woods. Copyright infringement with extreme prejudice. A samovar. It has a walled garden. A 200 year old Bentley. A Big Gay Army of terrorists. A tiger – IT HAS A TIGER – A TIGER!
I mean, come on, how could anything with those ingredients be anything other than great? It is written, finished, and about 1/3rd through the process of a second edit (with some serious scene-shuffling).
But I have a problem.
The problem is that I have written this book slowly during a very, very difficult period of my life. When I had nobody here at all, I worked on this book, and the people in it sustained me. They crystallised around me and became real presences in my life, friends, family. Their presence is a powerful comfort to me. And I know that when I send it out, they won’t be here any more. There is still nobody here, and I can’t bring myself to let go.
Even though it is time.
Also, I have no idea what to do next. After the edit/shuffle is finished. What do I DO with it?