During the agonizing wait for my last two red-penned copies to return to me from the trusted hands of their Beta-reader surrogates, I’ve been slapping together the sequel’s first draft, which seems to shaping up nicely. It’s nice to distract oneself when you know surgery is imminent. Other interesting things have been happening, too.
In the distance, I can hear the swipe of a digital paintbrush, as my cover artist ekes out time from his young family and full-time job to put together the next stage of the book’s awesome cover. And we’ve started talking theme, and theme editing, and fruitful things have been squished out from between our foreheads when we’ve pressed them together through emails.
My beloved rocket-scientist/technology guru continues to fire off amazing new ideas at me, which I try to catch and see if they will fit in the rewrite.
Happily, I keep glancing at the first copy that returned, that said science guru read and diligently chewed through, with copious notes that must have taken a huge amount of time to process. It’s resting on top of my original copy, pressed into the surface of a coffee table by Ademir’s, under the added weight of his red ink.
Only two more. Then it begins to begin. It’s amazing to look at, really. And humbling, too. That someone took such an amount of time out of their lives to help you make your dream clearer, more tangible, and hopefully, more successful. For a jaded old guy like me, images like this are too rare, and only prove that writing is so much of the right slices of our collective human psyche.
And messages of support like his go a long way when one is alone, typing away in a dark corner of his kitchen at 5:00 in the morning.