Since January first I've revised three novel-length manuscripts, and now I'm sending one of them out into the world. I have two current projects clamoring for my attention, and mostly what I feel (between pokes from the guilt monkey) is like my head has been scoured out with brillo pads. If the damned guilt monkey would leave me alone, I might get some rest.
I am starting to feel like a real writer, I think. Which is scary. Because in the living room there's a plain white manuscript box that I kinda feel has "here's the very best I can do," in it.