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So a little over two weeks ago, I sent my precious baby off to some strangers and a few friends to get some ugly, honest feedback on my manuscript. For those of you who don’t know what this is…it’s called beta reading. It’s their job to basically poke as many holes in your story, find the inconsistencies, call you out on shitty writing, tell you what they love, what they hate, and basically give input on how to make everything better. It is, quite possibly, one of the most nerve wrecking thin...

There may or may not have been some tears involved and a high-pitched sound that only the neighborhood dogs could hear. But I just wrote those two little words I’ve been chasing for months�

The End.

This weekend I put on my big girl panties and did the unthinkable.

I sent my full manuscript (minus the epilogue) to a complete stranger for a meal. Andit terrifies me to know that she is probably sitting on her couch up in Canada right now…chewing on my words…savoring them (perhaps?)…and quite possiblyeven spitting them out in disgust. I understand that this is a crucial part of the process and all writers who have come before me have done it…it just doesn’t make it any easier.

I mean…what if...

I feel like I’ve been staring at this word document for light years. That word, epilogue, it’s haunting me. Taunting me. The proverbial carrot dangling in front of me. That damn gold ring on the carousel.

I want to reach out and grab it. I keep feeling my fingers brush up against it, just shy of clenching it. Each rotation of this carousel I get closer and closer.

But damn it, I want that gold ring.

Sure, I know I don’t technicallyneedan epilogue. But I feel like it makes sense to have one for...

I’ve been known to run a marathon back in my day. And an ultramarathon. And hell, even an Ironman triathlon (yes, the full 140.6 mile race). Yeah, I am fully aware that I am a special breed of crazy. I don’t like to half ass anything; if I’m going to do something, I go balls out and just go big.

Which is probably why I outgrew the notion of short stories early on in my life.

Writing this novel has been a lot like those endurance races.

You start off strong. Excited. Keeping a steady pace of one...

The more frequently I write, the easier it gets.

The easier it gets, the more chapters I product.

The chapters I produce, the harder it becomes to finish the story.

I thought the hardest part would be getting started. When in fact, the hardest part is becoming the little details. Finessing the flow and transitions. Tying things together in the proverbial pretty little bow. Saying goodbye to Ivy and Phoenix.

It’s the most satisfying hard there is. (Yes. That’s what she said.)