Oh, it's taking so long...

I'm suffering through the third semester of pregnancy--at least I think I am. No, I'm sure of it. It's been long overdue, the delivery has to come soon. And when it finally arrives, what will it be? A healthy, progeny, full of life, or the runt of the litter? It is, however, 12th on the list, though of an earlier conception. My career as a writer started ages ago; nearly 18 years have since passed and now 11 books are online. But what does it matter, only the next counts, trying to bring it alive for public appraisal. Not by myself, of course; my wife tracked through every inch of the plot, hunting down offending lapses of creativity, not to forget pesky typos. I have lost count how many times we had done this already... BUT we are getting close and the birthing should be soon. I am excited. This book, more than any of the others I have written for myself. I have indulged myself and make no apologies or excuses. Total self-gratification. Yes, it will be here very soon. But I am tired of the effort, my brain has written it too many times. Everything else is all set, name is chosen (Strike the Red Hammer), and a place prepared among the family of the rest. Yet I wonder; will it achieve recognition? Bring me pride and a modicum of notoriety? What does it matter? I wrote it for myself and have been amply rewarded. Just... one... more... push and we'll be done with it...