Sunday is my older grandson's birthday. To celebrate, I finished the first draft of my second middle-grade novel manuscript.
He stood at my elbow and looked expectantly at the computer screen. "So now you're done with it, Gran'ma?" I hated to burst his bubble, but I had to be honest.
"No, sweetheart. I'm just beginning."
"What do you mean? I thought you said it was done."
I explained that only the first draft--the raw writing of the thing--was done, that now came multiple revisions. "And I need to cut approximately five-thousand words."
"That sounds boring, Gran'ma," he said, as he walked out of the room. I decided not to overwhelm him by describing my search for an agent. After all, he's just turning eight.
Happy birthday, Reuben!
No, that's not a picture of my typewriter. I use a computer (though much of my initial writing is done in a Moleskine notebook with a good-quality pen or mechanical pencil). I just love pictures of old typewriters and other "writerly" schtuff.