After I’ve finished a book, I’m totally spent.  Can’t do a thing for weeks.

This is the third book I’ve written, and as usual, my personal demons are always peaking through: Who do I think I am, writing a book? That’s for smart people. That’s for creative people. That’s for experts. I’m none of those things.

Then my editor, Steve, pipes up and tells me that indeed, I am capable of writing this book. I should own my expertise (he doesn’t use those exact words, but that’s the gist of it).

Along the way, I learn so much that by the end of the process I am, indeed, an expert. I now know more about horse bits than the average horse person. I also know how to photograph them on my dining room table, where I set up a makeshift studio complete with table lights and background. My horses were my guinea pigs, trying on all kinds of bits in all kinds of sizes. It was fascinating to try these bits (and bitless bridles) out and note their reactions.

I’m blessed that my life is so full of learning. After all, every time I ride one of my horses, I’m learning (and hopefully so are they). And every time I embark on a writing project, I’m learning. This accumulation of knowledge about horses and horse stuff is the fulfillment of dreams I had (and wrote about in my journal) when I was 10 years old, living in New Jersey, far from the horses of my fantasy life.

I’m just now getting back into the swing of working after my book went off to production and editing. I expected to get it back for a total rewrite, but alas, it wasn’t necessary. Maybe I’m better at this book stuff than I thought. 

It’s funny when you hear people say things like, “She’s a good rider,” or “she’s a good writer.” We never quite believe the compliments we receive. We feel that perhaps the person is being patronizing or is misguided. Whatever the case, one of the blessings of getting older is that you can start to believe it. You (or I) can believe in yourself.

After all, I just finished a book.