I’ve been hammering away on my new book for about three months. On Thursday, I started the final chapter. I’m hoping it will be finished in a week or two. I’m really thrilled about wrapping up this chapter — not because the book will be done. It won’t be done. But I’m thrilled because the major, serious work will finally be out of the way.

Once I get this last chapter knocked out, I plan to step away from the whole thing for a week and let my brain cool off. (I might stretch out on the couch and read something by Douglas Adams during that time.) Then I want to go back over the entire manuscript, rejuvenated and full of energy, and polish all the rough spots. This part shouldn’t take too long because I edited the daylights out of each chapter as I finished writing it. I’m mainly going to spruce the book up and add some “poetic sparkles” here and there. (I’ve been scribbling ideas in a little notebook, as they come to me, about the bits and pieces I want to add throughout the novel.)

Writing a book is like building a house. Right now, the basic structure is nearly finished. The roof is there. All the walls are in place. It’s just about ready. But I still need to paint it and put on the decorations — but that part won’t be as hard as everything else. I don’t even think of it as work. Painting is the fun part. (I realize the advertisement at the top doesn’t exactly fit what I’m talking about. Nobody paints a house with a spray can. I know, I know. But I couldn’t resist this picture. It’s bizarre, whimsical, and somewhat troubling too. The spray paint man has arms and legs, but no face. What a sad existence. I’m sure he feels very isolated and confused.)