I'm in the final stages of my book, so have been wrapped entirely in last minute research, interviews, words and editing. I'm spending so many hours on it that I have little left over at the end of the day. My mind works on only one track. It's been quite a year and now is winding to a close. I wobble between excitement and fear, but it's not over yet.
I spoke to a teen journal writing class a few nights ago and talked about how, when Callie-dog was a pup, I held her in my hands, marveling at the tiny scrunched face, soulful eyes, velvet fur. I couldn't imagine how she would look as an adult dog. I wondered how her character would develop. Part of me was anxious to see what she would grow into, but the other part wanted to keep her small and cuddly.
When I started this book, it was much the same thing. I could see its potential - I could envision the faint outline, like a shape in the fog. I knew there was an amazing story to be told...but I was afraid to start because it wasn't entirely clear. I wasn't sure how it would grow and develop. How would I pull the story together? Would it turn out as I imagined? Or would it take on a life of its own?
It has shape-shifted on me...
...but I have shape-shifted, too.