The book, after four months of constant thought - well apart from December, I cannot write in December - has left the building.
It felt much, much longer, but that's winter for you. I'm now getting up to light, there are snowdrops in the hedgerows, crocus and primroses in my garden and suddenly I want to be out there doing stuff. (A couple of big weeds bought it yesterday afternoon after I'd hit the send button!)
It's the story of two generations, two love stories separated by 60 years. (Me not following the script again.) I foresee a certain amount of "cutting" in my future but I can only write the book that I can write. If that makes sense. I might rewrite it, it might end up very different (that has happened before!), but I'm glad I wrote this one. Eventually.
Of course the first thing that happens when I hit "send" and the ms is despatched to my lovely editor, is that I immediately start thinking about all the things I should have included.
What the heroine would have been thinking when the black moment hit. Something she would have taken with her. But that's okay. I have not the slightest doubt that said editor will have a few thoughts of her own so I'll open a new file, make some notes and then, when the revisions come back, I can include my own.
Sarah's tiny apartment is on the top floor of the yellow house on the left. And that's her minute terrace, just big enough for two. And the pot of lemon thyme.
Now I'm going to treat myself to a reading binge. The best beloved bought me a Kindle for a surprise present last week and I've loaded a Jane Lovering, a Susanna Kearsley and a Michael Dibden. I've also got a new Kate Hardy to read and I've finally got around to reading Eat, Pray Love (it's paper so it's the bathtime book).
I also need to do something about a book I have to deliver in August. An idea would be good.
In the meantime I'm supposed to mention that BECOMING THE TYCOON'S BRIDE is now on sale in the US.