Writing until your head explodes

I am deep in revisions. I have been working on two other novels while waiting, so it's strange and wonderful to suddenly come back to the characters in Breathe and to begin to ache for them all over again.  I have a new editor and I have to say I am worshipping at her feet.  We've talked about the book before and worked on it together, but these changes are teaching me about the power of being subtle, about how taking out one line can empower an entire page. I'm so jazzed, all I want to do is work, which is a strange, hallucinatory feel. I know this sound stupid, and I commented about this on Facebook, but these days, I am so happy to be a writer. It feels very blessed. Working on finished (nearly finished) pages is so different than working on those thorny opening pages.  The characters are breathing on the page,  I feel them behind me, I want to do right by them.

I would be lying if I didn't say I am keeping my fears at bay, too.  The market is to weird right now.  I hope new novels are not considered a luxury.  I hope I can get radio and TV and bookclubs and print reviews. I hope I can get readings, though I'm not convinced that readings sell books. I fully intend to send my publicist flowers in deep appreciation (I work with publicists all the time because of my book columns, and I revere them) and I'll turn myself inside out trying to drum up support for Breathe.  And I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but all those reading, I will send you passionate emails begging for your help and support.

But that is still a year off, and in the meantime, I write, I dream, I write some more, I panic, I write, I obsess, I draw tarot cards, I write. I talk to producers (what bliss!  what fun!) and I write, I write, I write.