It’s Never Fucking Done

Goddamn. I have to finish the final edit of And So, She Rose.

Let me rewind. I called it done. I did. Through a broken wrist bolted together with a shiny titanium plate, I cranked out the final chapter. I did the edits. I hit save. I declared victory.

Fucking done.

Then I realized I needed to change the names of real people.

Fine. Did that. Done again.

Then I stepped into the world of self-publishing and learned very quickly that “done” is apparently a myth invented by naive writers.

“Oh, you should hire a proofreader.”

Fine. So I did. She was excellent. Sharp feedback. Real insight. I incorporated every useful comment.

Now it’s done. Right?

Nope.

Then my BFF read it. And when someone who loves you reads your work, they don’t give you polite editorial nods. They give you truth. She had notes. Good ones. The kind that make you sigh, close the laptop, and say, “Goddamnit, she’s right.”

I took notes. Planned the changes. And then, return to work happened.

Which brings us to today. Somewhere in this swirl, back in December, I hired an artist to design the cover. Not just for And So, She Rose, but for the Survivor’s Guide too. Companion pieces. Same universe. Same fire. She’s in demand. February was the earliest opening.

Well guess what? It’s February. She’s working on it right now. And that means there’s no more pretending this can drift a few more weeks.

If the cover is being created, the interior needs to be locked. That means I need to sit my ass down and incorporate that final round of comments. Not half-assed. Not rushed. Intentional.

Because the next steps are clear: Interior design. Formatting. Publish.

And then?

Then the work starts again.

Because in the self-publishing world, there’s no marketing team waiting to carry your book into the world. There’s just you. Your platform. Your voice. Your willingness to shove it into rooms until someone pays attention.

Fine. I’ll push it. I’ll push the Survivor’s Guide too. I’ll push them in between pushing the RIDEST initiative.

Is that too many fires? Maybe.

Should I slow down? Focus on one thing at a time? Develop a calm, linear, emotionally regulated plan?

No fucking way. That’s not how I’m wired.

I have never been a single-lane road. I am a fucking interchange. Traffic merging from everywhere. Sparks flying. Horns blaring. Movement constant.

So yeah. The next year will probably look frazzled.

But here’s the difference: The mayhem has meaning now.

This isn’t chaos for survival. It’s chaos for creation. It’s chaos pointed toward legacy.

If I still drank, I’d raise a glass to that. But I don’t. So a silent nod will have to do.

Now excuse me while I go finish the thing that was done three times already.