Well, the book has finally left my hands and is with the printer. I have often heard writers talk about their creation as their baby. Born from within them, nutured and loved, a writer is fiercely protective of their baby.
Well yes. And no. I don’t think my book is that much like a baby. It is certainly not like my baby. My book does not wake me up in the middle of the night thinking it is time to tickle its toes. It does not vomit on my shoulder. And if I share a bed with it, it does not hog the pillow and keep punching me in the face.
In fact, I may bring back my book from the printers and give them my baby for a bit. That sounds like a much better idea.