The rewrite is done. The revised version of The Shadow Tracer has gone to my editor. I spent the last two months killing characters and words or, as my son calls it, subjecting the manuscript to a blood and ink bath.
Having my head pointed at my computer screen for two months has had several consequences. I have spent so much time on Google street view that I feel like I’ve taken a road trip on Route 66 from Oklahoma to California. I’ve learned about pen/trap court orders and somehow got sidetracked into watching videos of B-52 bombers taking off. (Did you know that a parade of taxiing B-52s is colloquially called an “elephant walk”?)
I knew I was over-focused on work when I came downstairs and saw a couple of pieces from our nativity set in the front hall. I picked up a wise man and baby Jesus and said, “Where were these? Did we forget to put them away last year? Have they been under the table since January?” And turned around to see the Husband bedecked in the tinsel he was stringing around the house.
Yet somehow that didn’t really register, and I dug back into the rewrite. But when I sent the finished product off — at nine p.m. Friday night — I stumbled out of my office and the Husband said, “The Son was in the town Christmas parade this evening.” All I could say was, “It’s Christmas?”