All last week I was building up for this moment – the day I would pack a few essential items into my car and head into rural suburbia on a house sitting retreat for the holidays.  The perfect Thanksgiving.  No forced holiday cheer, no forced feeding.  Just me, the guesthouse, some homemade split pea soup and my computer.

And a manuscript to polish.

So why am I stalling?

I haven’t packed or showered.  I haven’t even opened the blinds to see what sort of day it is – although based on the sound of strimmers and lawn mowers at my apartment complex I’m guessing crisp and gorgeous.

Does every first time novelist reach this point?  The moment where the light at the end of the four hundred page tunnel becomes blinding?  Almost terrifying?

Because what do I do next?  What happens to Maggie, Tom and Ben after I type “The End”?

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