Something I wrote is coming to life.

Of course, I knew it would be a good thing, but I guess I never realized just how good.

I’ve sent in the second draft of my first book to my editor. I noticed our work schedules differ, and asked where she was. Scotland. That’s pretty cool. My first book’s price will be listed in pounds as well as dollars. I feel quite continental.

I was nervous about getting her notes. What if we don’t agree? What if she wants changes that I don’t? After all, I’m under contract now. Will this get sticky?

So far, the answers are all good. I actually loved her first notes. She made suggestions I hadn’t considered and the results were improvements to the manuscript. I felt like she was on my team—helping me make the book better, rather than presenting the nitpicking I’d feared would come.

And today, she asked for my notes to the cover artist, and the whole thing became real in a way I hadn’t expected. Someone is making a cover for a book I wrote. Yes, it’s just a little paranormal romance on an e-publisher’s website. But I wrote it.

Creating art is often a solitary experience, and while that’s not a bad thing, it makes it unusual to share that personal experience with a team, even if’s just a small one. I have an editor. I have a cover artist. I hadn’t considered how fun this part would be, and I’m enjoying every minute.

For the handful of writers I know who are published, I know you understand. And for the gazillion writers I know who aren’t, I know you understand even better.