 |
| (Grin). You're never bugging me by asking. Don't think that's the problem. The problem is, the story's just not ready for public consumption. |
Pedal to the Metal's release
is delayed yet again.
I hear your groans. That's been my problem all along. I know you want the end of the story. We all want Shelby to find her HEA, me most of all. This is like being pregnant for the eleventh month. The doctor--who'd be my editor in this example--is saying the baby will come in its own time, but all I can think is that my family's giving me the side-eye for holding back on them.
I even fooled with the idea of adding another book to the series, so that I could end the tale where I am (on another cliffhanger) and release *something* today... but face it, nobody wants half a damn baby, me least of all.
And so, Pedal to the Metal will be born in its own time, after I sit back and figure out what the merry hell I'm missing. I have to identify what's causing the damn thing to run to over 108K words and yet, the conclusion, the scene that is so real and so perfect, you read it five times before you close the file, is eluding me.
That problem is never found at the end of a story, but somewhere in the middle, meaning I have to weigh each scene and figure out what stays and what goes, and then, re-write from that point.
Not a thing I can do under pressure. Such is the pain and joy of being indie. No one has to be pleased but me. Because if I'm happy with it, you'll be happy with it, long after you forget your annoyance because you rushed to the hospital with flowers and balloons, only to find the expectant mother has been sent home to wait.
I won't set another release date until I have typed 'The End' and feel good about it. Once I do that, the file will go to Nomi, my editor. She has a life too, so my inability to hit the deadline she and I agreed on will affect how fast she can get to it.
I hear your groans. That's been my problem all along. I know you want the end of the story. We all want Shelby to find her HEA, me most of all. This is like being pregnant for the eleventh month. The doctor--who'd be my editor in this example--is saying the baby will come in its own time, but all I can think is that my family's giving me the side-eye for holding back on them.
I even fooled with the idea of adding another book to the series, so that I could end the tale where I am (on another cliffhanger) and release *something* today... but face it, nobody wants half a damn baby, me least of all.
And so, Pedal to the Metal will be born in its own time, after I sit back and figure out what the merry hell I'm missing. I have to identify what's causing the damn thing to run to over 108K words and yet, the conclusion, the scene that is so real and so perfect, you read it five times before you close the file, is eluding me.
That problem is never found at the end of a story, but somewhere in the middle, meaning I have to weigh each scene and figure out what stays and what goes, and then, re-write from that point.
Not a thing I can do under pressure. Such is the pain and joy of being indie. No one has to be pleased but me. Because if I'm happy with it, you'll be happy with it, long after you forget your annoyance because you rushed to the hospital with flowers and balloons, only to find the expectant mother has been sent home to wait.
I won't set another release date until I have typed 'The End' and feel good about it. Once I do that, the file will go to Nomi, my editor. She has a life too, so my inability to hit the deadline she and I agreed on will affect how fast she can get to it.
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