Yeah, yeah, it has been a while.

I finished writing my novel About Emily. I went through a couple of revisions, gave it to read to Pierre as well. I am very proud of this work, even if it is quite different from what I have done recently. It does not insist on humor, satire, and there is very little levity anywhere there. The plot came to me in a dream. All I had to do was write it.

All I had to do. Give my soul to it. Sell my soul. That's how it felt like, basically. For when I completed Emily, I felt drained inside.

Drained, and proud.

But I feel proud at the completion of every novel I write. Every time, I feel this is the best writing I have ever done. Emily is no exception. The only difference is that, unlike Chainsaw Jane and From A to Zoe (which I am going to put on the market shortly, hopefully), this is literary work, not the type of writing that will attract the masses. Prose, style, inner wanderings are more important than action here. Paris is as much a character as, well, characters.

At the same time, I fear disappointment. Is it as good as I think it is? How can I know? Sales? Sales do sometimes---but not necessarily---indicate the quality of a work. If I keep being an independent author, I will need luck on my side, as I can put so much money on marketing. But I am getting ahead of myself. The book is not ready for publication. It's just a newborn.

Time. Time will let me know, independent of sales. Once I get detached from all the efforts placed into Emily, and once I get back to reading it again with my left brain---all blades of my critical mind sharpened---I will know.

Meanwhile, there is that feeling of delivering a newborn. It's exhilarating, exhausting, and for a while you don't know where your mind is. And yet you don't want to go anywhere else.