Thanksgiving. That's my new deadline.
I've been working on something that I feel has more potential than anything else I've written. And through hard work, it's turning into something really magical.
Of course, that's what I'm always going to think, right? Not necessarily.
I can never truly be subjective, but I still have an idea. Ten books published, thirty-seven (or more) written, thirteen years spent in publishing--I can at least have an idea. An idea on potential. And publishers--they rarely know. They never know until they back into something and it turns into something big. And something "magical."
So much of this year has been about building. And about the potential. It's been about sowing seeds. It's been about starting over. It's been about a new course and a new genre. And it's been about crafting this story that could be magical.
I'm in the second draft. It's not Gone With The Wind or To Kill A Mockingbird or Cold Mountain or The Lovely Bones. But it's so very me. And I think that a lot of people could find the magic in it, too.
I sit at this computer and have to force myself to believe. To believe in the potential of story, to believe in the power of the tale. I have to try and do something that I feel is my best. And the closer I'm getting to finishing this rewrite (or redo), the closer I'm feeling to having done it.
I don't know. It comes and it goes--this feeling. This belief. This strength. Some days it's there, and some days it's far, far gone.
But I'm almost finished, and then the rest of the world can decide.
And then I'll keep trying, keep climbing, keep going on.
And it'll keep coming and going as I do.