I feel lost.  There is no expression on my face.  My stomach is immobile and I’m on hold.

I’ve spent the past seven months living in my secret world, in plain sight, piecing together a world, word by word, scene by scene.

You guessed it.  I finished my round of editing Crimson Hall Ghost House.

I just hit send to my editor extraordinaire, Jennifer, and handed off a paper copy to my wonderful friend, Stephanie, who was satisfyingly excited.

Now I wait.

To be honest, it’s not ready for them.  This past month and a half I’ve been working feverishly.  The mature writer would put her finished tome under her bed, waiting at least a few months before pulling it out to thoughtfully look over her work and start the editing process again.

But I can’t do it.

Seven months.  Seven months!  I feel like I’ve been keeping an important and detailed secret for seven months.  I’ve been living this reality since August and I feel like I’m bursting at the seams for someone to share it with!

I know I should be humble and deferential here, saying the book needs a lot of work.  But you want my straightforward assessment?  The honest truth as I see it?  I know I could be judged harshly for admitting this, but, I love my book.  I do.  I just can’t seem to help it.  See?  Tears are welling up.  I’m smiling.  I believe my book, Crimson Hall Ghost House, follow-up to Gold Manor Ghost House, rocks!

I still feel unmoored, though, waiting to hear from Stephanie or Jennifer to talk about the story line of Crimson Hall Ghost House.   But my impatience will recede day by day.  I won’t be looking at my phone for an email, text, or call with either of their names every hour.  Eventually.  This isn’t my first rodeo.

The creative process is … what?  I’ve been pushing myself as of late to get to today and now that today is here I want to crawl in a hole and throw a party.  I want to light a candle and take a bath in the near darkness, listening to Coldplay while contemplating what it all means.  I want to talk in terms of ‘giving birth,’ only to feel ridiculous and justified as my six year old just came into my bedroom where I’m waxing philosophical.

Through this process of producing a book, most of all, above the extreme high, and fright, and joy I feel, gratitude rides highest.  I am full of gratitude for the stunning beauty and mystery of this big beautiful world.  I am all too aware of the evil.  And yet, goodness, wholeness, life, discovery, that I get to be part of in my own way?  I find I’ve incurred yet another debt to God I could never begin to repay.

Thank you, Fount of All Wonder, for planting wonder in my heart.