The original opening sentence of the robot book was this:
We were about to find out what we were made of. Or rather, we were about to find out what the thing we made was made of.
That’s not the opening sentence I ended up with, but it was a good one. I should have slid it in somewhere, because that’s what the book is all about — finding out what what you made is made of.
That’s what being a writer on the verge of publication is like, too — but it’s a long wait. I finished this book nearly 11 months ago, and by “finished” I mean, “wrote the acknowledgments,” and other late-phase i-dotting and t-crossing. I wrote the first draft in the winter of 11-12 and worked on revisions all last summer. I lived with these characters for a long time, but haven’t seen them in a while. A long, cold winter has come and gone since the long, cold one described in this book. I’ve gotten immersed in other projects and watched my son turn from still-basically-a-baby to a defiant “big boy.” There’s a lot of miles between me and this book.
And it still isn’t out for another two months.
That’s probably the weirdest and hardest part of this whole process — the long wait between completing the book and seeing how the world responds. The long wait to see what I made is made of.