I tend to see things differently when looking at a printed page than I do when looking at a computer screen. I edit better by hand, in handwriting, on the printed page. There is also something wonderfully satisfying about printing out finished pages and holding something tangible in my hands. I printed my manuscript today and it ate up two brand new ink cartridges, spilling 403 pages out in beautiful inky glory. I’ve written short stories and published quite a few, but I have never had the sublime pleasure of holding a thick block of manuscript, heavy and substantial in my hands. It is all consuming for a day. I suppose the excitement will fade in a day – maybe two, but right now everything is MY BOOK. I have a glossy black manuscript folder and it is filled solid. Today, everything is-

I’m in an elevator WITH MY BOOK.

I’m drinking coffee WITH MY BOOK.

I’m carrying MY BOOK everywhere.

I am obnoxious. I just want to hold it all the time. Of course, this newfound ego won’t last. I am painfully aware of the book’s weaknesses and once I start editing, this high will crash into the ground like a fucking dart, but for now, MY BOOK.


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I am a 38 year old writer and jill-of-many-trades, a world traveler, a sometimes expat and a dedicated freethinker.

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