I was thinking this week about what it’s like after publishing a book.

I just finished God of Revenge, Book 2 of the Jeopardy Directive, and sent it out into the world. By that point, I had gone over it far too many times—caught, as I sometimes am, in the quiet trap of it has to be perfect. (I even edit after the editor)

And yet, even after all that, there is something I can only describe as a kind of post-publishing fog.

It’s a mix of editing exhaustion and that lingering question that never quite goes away: Did I miss something?

There’s a strange feeling of still moving forward, but slightly disoriented—as though part of you is still back in the manuscript, turning over sentences that are no longer yours to change.

This time, and again, I thought of Miss Trixie from A Confederacy of Dunces—one of my favorite characters ever written.

Miss Trixie is an elderly woman who has spent her life working in a pants factory. All she wants in the world is to retire and receive the Christmas ham she believes she earned but never got.

Unfortunately, the boss’s wife—armed with a correspondence course in psychology—decides that retiring Miss Trixie would make her feel lonely and useless. It’s well-meaning, perhaps, but no one ever thought to ask Miss Trixie what she wanted.

So she continues to come to work.

Some days she forgets to dress properly. Some days she isn’t quite sure what she’s wearing at all. She makes her way to her desk, sits down, and falls asleep.

The timid office manager gently wakes her, and every time she startles awake with the same question: “Am I retired yet? Where’s my Christmas ham?”

And when she realizes nothing has changed, she mutters under her breath and goes back to sleep.

Often after publishing, I find myself saying, "I feel like Miss Trixie." There’s that same drifting feeling. The fog. That exhaustion. Those quiet questions lingering somewhere in the mind.

YOu see, there’s a difference between writing a story and preparing it to be read.

Writing is instinct. It’s imagination. It’s the part where something appears out of nothing. It's creative and energetic.

Editing and formatting are something else entirely. Necessary, yes—but they don’t create. They refine. They shape. They correct.

Sometimes, after too much editing, I can feel the shift. That’s when I know to stop.

Every phase of a book matters, but they are not the same, and each one calls on a distinct part of the mind.

So, nothing is actually wrong. It never lasts long. The Miss Trixie syndrome fades away, and before I know it, I’m headfirst into another story. The fog lifts, and everything moves again as it should.

And perhaps that’s the difference. Miss Trixie is waiting for an ending. I am already walking into the next beginning.

Until next time —

Helen