Impatience of a Writer

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There’s something about sending an untried draft of a novel to its first set of new eyes. Last night, I sent it off on its electronic journey, out into a limited world, and I’m already impatient.

I want them to read it already.

But it’s a book. And it can’t be consumed blindly in twenty minutes while eating a bag of chips. Well, you can still eat the chips but you know what I mean.

This one’s different, not my usual strange almost-sci-fi, fermented on a bed of humor. This one’s a mystery. My mystery is whether it works.

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