I hate my book.  I love my book. I don’t want to dissect sentences one more time. I’m sick of editing. My writing coach told me writing a book is a marathon, not a sprint. He didn’t tell me I’d be inching my way across the finish line, or rather crawling and clawing my way through the gravel to get my book in print. I envy the people who can whip out a book in a few months’ time and send it off to a publisher. Not me. I’m a slow moving, methodical perfectionist trying to let this book go after years of work.

If life events hadn’t slowed me down. If that car hadn’t rear-ended me. If my house foundation didn’t need to be torn out to replace all the pipes.

If… If… If… My book would be released by now. I want to lay down and take a long nap on a beach in the sunshine.

At last, I’m done. My book is heading to the format lady who will arrange the layout. The cover is in the final stages of perfection. Then I will check, and recheck for errors with a team of amazing people—one more time. Truly, “Fire of Hope” will be out soon.

Cheers to a long process and words that, I pray, will touch your soul.

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