Shots fired. I repeat, Shots fired.

There is no more editing. No more revisions, no more second guessing.

There is only waiting, and moving on to the next story, for now.

Today is cover letter, synopsis and self-addressed, stamped envelope day.

Manuscript submitted.

Finally.

Depending on how you count it, it’s been either 20 months or 20 years since I started this process. Elements of the book came to me when I viewed the stark, vivid hills of Northern Nevada on my way to college.

The pain and separation of my exit from Arizona are echoed in the protagonist’s journey, and on the streets of historical Paris.

People I’ve lost, people I’ve found, their shadowy outlines appear in the night alongside entirely fictional persons and personages.

But they don’t belong to me anymore. Not until I return to the pages of their second book.

For now, they belong to the United States Postal service, and then, hopefully, to a publisher who shall remain nameless, who will then share them with the world.

Or not.

Either way, Yay me.

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