That’s right, folks. The first draft of my second novel, VENUS RISING, is in the bag. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing it, and I can’t wait to go back to the beginning and take my metaphorical red pen to it.
(To those folks who suggest waiting two months before editing: I have not your patience.)
I should have time to do my initial pass before Christmas, then it’s off to my beta readers for some New Year reading. My rough timeline is to have their feedback incorporated by the end of February, then work on it with my editor Misti in March, and publish in April. (I’ll be working with Stephanie on the cover from mid-January. Look out for that!)
Finishing the draft is slightly bittersweet in one way, though. When I hit this milestone for ASCENSION POINT, I was absolutely elated. It was MY FIRST BOOK. “I have written a novel!” I briefly considered shouting from the rooftops before calming down and having a cup of tea.
This time… not so much elation, as a sense of deep satisfaction. I’ve proven to myself–not that I had any doubt, mind–that the first book wasn’t a one-off. I can do this, again and again, and enjoy it every time. This is what I do. In the immortal words of Ernest Hemingway*:
“I ARE WRITER.”
* Part of this sentence is false.