I’ve been coming in and out of a manic mindset as of late. Mercury retrograde was in my house, Sagittarius, last month, and I’ve come out swinging. Sure, I’ve had my low points, but I’m having a productive moon cycle. I’m switched on, pumping the gas, flying high.
But then a part of me whispers that the low is waiting for me to slip.
How long does it take to tell a story? Some can be told in a few words. Some are a punchline. Some can be summed up in a few paragraphs. Some take a lifetime.
This is in response to a thing on Twitter. Someone was discussing what they hope to accomplish in 2019. A few people were doing this actually. December isn’t even half over, and people are already doing New Year’s resolutions.
I once said something to a friend that rang true for me at the time: “My life may be falling apart around me, but my writing has never been better.”
She wore a dress of peppermint.
Her heart was icy diamond.
Her teeth were icicles.
Purple berries adorned her hair;
bluish-white in the northern lights.
She walks upon rocks of light blue;
leading to a snow-covered path.
Baby fir trees showed the way;
pointing with hunter-green fingers.
I follow, my nerves like cracked glass.
My ego is fragile.
My limbs are heavy and numb.
Steam emanating from my mouth;
my breath freezing in the frigid air.
But still I follow;
never wanting to stray.
She leaves no prints on the fresh snow.
Her feet glide over it.
She shines like moonlight.
She radiates like nighttime beauty.
Cold spreads though my soul.
It comforts me. I know it’s her.
The snow gets deeper.
We are almost there.
Her home is in the trees;
high in the soft green needles.
I leave a trench in my wake;
an emptiness to be refilled.
The morning snow will come;
and it will be as if I wasn’t ever here.
She makes love like a princess;
loves like a white-furred fox.
Her fingertips are pleasure,
snowy magick in every touch.
Her cold spreads through me;
reaching my pit.
Her lips press to mine;
sapping my warmth.
Her body is her own;
My body is hers;
She asks for nothing.
I offer everything.
I lay on the ground, alone.
My wintery lady has gone.
There is more to this world;
but do I really want it?
Will I reach out for it;
or will I stay where I am;
lying on the frozen ground;
comfortable in the cold;
dreaming of my Yuletide Mistress.
When you decide a WIP is done, is it really done? That’s probably a question geared more toward the writers who follow me, but feel free to answer either way.
You did it. You wrote a book. You didn’t just write a good book. You wrote a great book! You had it read by your friends, and they loved it. Your second draft was even better than the first. You had it edited, and the final version is perfection.
So what do you do next? You query literary agents, of course.