This week I published a book.
That’s a pretty good sentence, isn’t it. Let’s just watch it for a minute.
Ahhhhhh. So good.
My book, that I wrote, redrafted, sought feedback on, adapted, redrafted and redrafted again, edited, hired an editor to finalise, that I crafted – that book – is published. She lives, at last!
That book is The Castle — Diary of a Lost Woman. It’s a modern gothic story of myth and misadventure. There are daft quips, bleak cliffs and a fabulously feathered raven or two.
It’s gothic. It’s dark. Things can and do go wrong. But, because I wrote it, there are none of the things that I don’t want to read about. No sexual assault, for example. But there’s fear aplenty. There are things that go squeak in the night. There is bleakness and there is beauty.
For everything else that this week is, for me, it is the week of my book.
We made it, little book. We got here at last.
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