I remember the feeling of walking to the top of a high, convoluted slide in a water park and thinking I spent 45 minutes in line to get here. Why? Do I really want to go down this thing?
I always did go down, of course, because I’d spent 45 minutes trying to get there.
There was the first rush of panic, followed by a whoosh of tummy tickling pleasure, then a sadness to have it end, probably 30 seconds or so after it started. It was usually followed by an irrational desire to get in line and do it again.
It’s been a while since I’ve done that, but the past three months have had a similar feel. With each new novel I’ve released, the level of complexity of the tasks has increased, making each slide seem higher and feel more twisty.
I’m nearing the end of my slow 45 minute trek up the steps on book 3. The complexity comes from the fact that I’m juggling more each time. The audio version of book 1 is in progress and requires my input. Newly released book 2 is in sore need of publicity. Book 4 is blissfully dormant but book 5 is getting edited, while the designers are starting on the cover for book 6 and have quite a few questions.
I feel apprehensive and drawn five different directions and I’m wondering why I thought walking up here and going down this was such a good idea. On March 16 I’ll be at the top, submitting manuscripts and covers and pushing the publish button once again, hoping for 24-hour turn around on the approval so I can claim a St. Patrick’s Day publication date just for fun.
Then it’s whoosh, and whee, and that was fun, followed by can I do it again? Yes, I can and probably will.
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