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I hit send on a thoroughly rewritten manuscript this morning. It’s off to my publisher. I feel numb. At midnight last night (or this morning?) I finished proofing the last round of changes and felt a wonderful sense of calm. I slept well. But first thing this morning all the worries I’ve easily shoved back so that I could focus on this deadline were clamoring to fill the vacuum left by this accomplishment. This crazy mind!

I’m going to do something quite shocking. I’m going to stay away from the computer, email, the web, etc for a whole week. I’m going to reacquaint myself with people I love, go to a museum or two, walk, stare up at the sky, spend hours doing restorative yoga (oh yes!), whatever tickles my fancy.

And then… Will I return to Alisoun Ffulford and her story, write up the new series idea that’s been tempting me with intriguing possibilities, dive right into the follow-on book to the one I’ve just completed, finishing the story of Joan of Kent and the Black Prince? I’m not sure. I don’t need to make up my mind today. What a sense of freedom.

I began this post feeling horribly unsettled, untethered, in limbo. There truly is something to the claim that delivering a manuscript plunges a writer into a state akin to postpartum blues. But now I’m quite cheered by the prospect of a week of relaxation and then something new, fresh.

Until my editor’s notes arrive. Ouch. I wish I hadn’t thought of that.