My man is home from the hospital, and we're fine. Better than fine. He's up walking around, eating regular food and growling over politicians and proposed county tax increases. I'd say we're practically back to normal.
I won't have to do revisions on my latest novel. My editor put a couple of notes in the margin -- wanted some one-liner explanations here and there -- but sent the ms. straight to copy-edit. This is the second book in a row that's happened with, and while it's very flattering, it also makes me nervous. Yeah, I've written a lot of books, and I can write consistently at a professional level. Would not have sold all these books if I couldn't. But I'm not a perfect writer, and I never will be. I can't improve if I think everything I write is flawless. Maybe this makes me the most unnatural writer in the world, but I like the editorial process. I learn a lot from it. I want to be edited.
There's an inferiority complex involved in all this, too. I can see its pointy little head sticking up between my backlist and my pending contracts.
I will never be comfortable in this industry, I guess. Most of the time I feel like Betty Crocker in the court of Caligula. Best I stay out of sight in the kitchen and keep cooking.