Tomorrow I get the stitches out, which means that the wound is healed well enough to venture forth without bandages. The trouble is, I don’t want to look at it. When I glance in the mirror I see not only my adult self but also the little kid with bleeding sores; the twelve year old with a lacerated neck; the seventeen year old with a smashed face.
When I look in the mirror I would like to put my fist through the image reflected back at me. But that is a childish impulse and not worth dwelling on. Instead I will revert to practical matters, like finishing the next book before I go on tour in a few weeks.
I am not yet willing to reveal the title but the cover (courtesy of Gabriel) is simply beautiful.
There are still two missing chapters and one long section needs to be spliced and moved around a bit. This is the hard part of the work – the details, the adjustments, the tedious editing tasks that can lead to doubt and despair if one is not careful to block out such thoughts.
I keep ranting that I either must go work on the book now or that I never want to work on the book again and my family members just nod with glazed expressions.
I’m sure they wish that I could go out and rubberneck with my pals. But I haven’t lived here long enough to find those people. My only local writer friend is away on a book tour right now and thus unavailable to trade tormented tales.