I had to finish the hat.
My novel which is technically the second in a series but I hope will be published first is finished.
Well except for the rewriting.
And I'll be sending it to agents.
And I had to finish the hat.
I had to hide from my daughter, my husband, my father, my friends.
I hated it. I wanted to go out into the sunlight.
I wanted to hug my daughter--and I did--and then I told her "Go play."
I talked over the story with my husband. I woke in the middle of the night to work on it. I worked on it deep into the dark hours.
My schedule is all fucked up.
I finished it.
I have done more research.
I have to tweak it. I have to get it more ready. I have to edit it.
But the first draft is done.
And it's beautiful. Warts and all. Typos and all. Mistakes that make the editor part of me cringe and all.
People don't understand.
Sondheim, in Sunday in the Park with George understood and put it into words.
Look I made a hat!
Where there never was a hat!
More to come
