This morning, like every morning, I sat at my laptop. But a feeling of postpartum - the afterbirth anguish of sending my manuscript to my editor to New York - lingers. Every time - and this is the 14th book - it's as if I've sent a child off to college in New York. I know my child will change, become leaner, smarter, deeper and tighter but there's an ache of what more could I have done to prepare, to craft, to add that one word, phrase and oh, wait I need to change the last line feeling.
But it's c'est la vie time, suck it up and move on to the next story. So I stare at these paintings above my desk and enter the world of my next book.
Some of these might find there way in the story.
I wish I could lift my leg this high.
Cara - Tuesday