I’ll be honest. I am uncertain how February has crept up on me so.
It feels like only yesterday we were celebrating the New Year, and I was scrambling to finish up structural edits for my editor. Now, nearly three weeks since I’ve turned that draft in, my body still hasn’t quite realised that sending off an edit is meant to feel a relief.
Instead, I find myself in waiting mode, anxious about what comes next. What feedback will I have this time around? And how much more work will be needed, to get this book to a place that can be called finished?
And so I try to relax — to wander the place between stories with wonder once more. I try to coax my body back into a place of safety, scribbling down glimpses into other worlds. It doesn’t help that the world just outside my window grows darker every day.
Only a week more, now, before I should hear back from my editor. And after that? How do I work toward a future I cannot see? How can I know what comes next?
Only time will tell.
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