Man, for the past few days, I've been wandering around in a funk. Loving Husband thinks it's because I'm done (stick a fork in me) with revisions to Hotter Than Hell and sent the manuscript to my agent. This is it -- the last in the three-book contract. (It's also the best thing I've ever written. Eva. Seriously. Yeah, I know, I say that after I'm done with every book I write. This time, I mean it.)
Okay, yes, I have a contract for a Hell novella for a Kensington anthology, and I've begun that (thanks, Heather, Caitlin, and all the Write Ons). But once that's done (and that will probably be before the Backspace Conference in a few weeks)...then that's it.
Sure, I've got two projects on submission. And I have two more under way. But...it's not the same thing.
Loving Husband says that some authors get all maudlin and crap when they're done with a manuscript. I don't know, a sort of literary post-partum (partem? too lazy to look it up) depression, or something like that. Maybe that's what this is.
So my dad called me today to say that he read The Road to Hell. Enjoyed it. Says he liked Hell's Belles better, but he thinks that's because that story was completely novel, and this one felt more familiar. He also said that he thinks the writing is better in The Road to Hell. And he said the book "is raunchy as hell." I told him he was supposed to skip those parts. He said that he skipped ahead to GET to those parts.
I'm scarred for life.