Push!

I started this summer off with about twenty thousand words left to write on my novel. If you’re not a writer, then to give you a clue, one chapter (for me) is around three thousand words. So I needed approximately six chapters in order to make my final wordcount goal. Right now, if you’re NOT a writer, you’re thinking, “Something’s wrong with her math.”

Anyway, I usually average about a chapter a week. But, it being summer, and me being on the brink of hurling myself into a kiddie pool filled with Ho Hos all day every day, I only managed to get around ten thousand words out.

The kids went back to school on Monday.

Let us now pause to give thanks. And snarf a Ho Ho from the stash we kept in case of emergencies.

So. On Monday. I wrote. FIVE THOUSAND WORDS!

I was pretty excited. I mean, compared to my summer average of one and a half sentences per day, FIVE THOUSAND is pretty good, am I right?

What’s even better is that this is the climax, the most exciting part of the book. Action. Danger. Suspense. Wuv! Truw Wuv! Aside from a brief detour where I had to rethink a Stupid Heroine Moment—“Oh, maybe I should run to safety instead of investigating the scary noise”—the words were flowing.

My critique group meets on Tuesdays, so Monday night—feeling a little giddy and punch-drunk from my writing spree—I sent them an email promising that my chapter would contain a . . . wait for it . . . SHIRTLESS CONFESSION TO MURDER.

How much better could it get, right? Hunky guy, sans shirt, drops a bomb on unsuspecting, love-blind heroine.

Squee!

I even told my husband about the exciting SHIRTLESS CONFESSION TO MURDER. He immediately assumed his best East German accent and confessed to murder while demanding that I “watch his pecs dance.”

Men! They just can’t take these things seriously.

At least my critique group responded more appropriately.

“Is it hot in here?”

Nearing the end of a book is intoxicating. No, this isn’t my first novel. But this one was a doozy—the equivalent of giving birth to a 10-pound baby after thirty-six hours of labor. And two years of pregnancy.

The nice thing about birthing books is that it’s common practice—even recommended—that you put them on a shelf for a week, maybe longer, and take a breather after typing “The End.”

I expect to be breathing, relaxing, having a mani-pedi, and chowing on Ho Hos (of course) about this time next week.

I’ll send you a birth announcement. And maybe a picture of my sweaty, bloated, happy face.