Now I'm in the throes of finishing Home By Nightfall, the second of this two-book series. Never having had children myself, I still compare the exercise of writing a book to being pregnant: I get an idea and nurture it along, pleased and a bit uncertain; after a while I settle in for months of work with episodes of emotional jags along the way when things don't feel right. Then I get down to the last parts of the job. The end is in sight but we're not quite there. I'm literally saying, "Get this thing outta me!" as I toil away to finish. The dogs wander in and out as I labor, unconcerned by the drama. At last, surrounded by empty Burger King drink cups that once held Diet Coke, a wastebasket full of used tissues (there are always tears), and an empty dental floss dispenser because I floss my teeth while I proofread, I have a book. Or will have.
During breaks in this particular endeavor I'm stopping to check on the progress of my high-flying bird child, and I'm so proud.
