It's a strangely anti-climactic feeling, and the wait times are brutal. I have signed a contract with the independent publisher DarkFuse. I will be joining the ranks of such established genre writers as Greg F. Gifune, Tim Curran and William Meikle. I spent all last week editing the manuscript I hadn't looked at in months, which included writing an entirely new ending!
I'm very excited. I can't wait. I'm giddy as I write this. But my new editor also already let slip the casual inquiry as to what I might be working on next... And that's the way it is. I make a small advance and wait until my book comes out this summer and pray to whatever gods I find myself currently able to believe in that the damn thing sells! Also, I cringe in fear at the thought of what my peers will think (and my parents!) at the more, shall we say..."extreme" scenes that they and everyone else will be able to read freely in just a few months. Also, I keep writing and working on the next thing, on the next vision, the next project. I'm suddenly all too aware of the business side of writing and all the responsibilities that come with it!
Still, I'm thrilled about the things I'm working on ('Out of the Jar," my current novel in progress, I feel, is much better than 'The New Flesh') and I feel accomplished and the future feels a bit warmer, a bit brighter. I mean, I've been working towards this my whole fucking life, so...