Playing with Words

a journey into the world of writing for young readers

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The inbetween time
michele on trike
I've finished the first draft. I've dreamed about situations and plot lines. I've revised. I've printed out the manuscript and sat in the dining room (a room without a computer) with a red pen and made yet more revisions. I've given it to my writer's group and a few other readers to make sure I'm on the right track, that the premise holds together, the voice is there, the characters make sense.
Then I sent it to my agent.
Now what?
I have a few other projects, some magazine deadlines and pressing chores I've put off for the last six months (it may be eight months, but who's counting?). So it's not like I have nothing to do.
And yet.
I feel like something's missing.
My manuscript.
It's been my constant companion for the last year or so, always in the front of mind, the characters growing, learning, getting in and out of trouble. I miss them. I miss coming to my computer and knowing they were there waiting for me.
So I move on. I have research to do for my next book. Edits coming in on another book. A proposal do out for a project. I know. I know. I have a ton of work.
And yet.
I feel the emptiness like a phantom limb.
Not to worry, I tell myself. I'm sure the manuscript will be back for another set of revisions soon enough.


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