WhiteWashed, a Pitch Fest, and The Ooze Walk Into A Bar

My brain hurts.

I just finished an entire book run through of editing WhiteWashed. This is what my brain feels like:

Like a LOST plane crash.

I'm pretty sure it will all be ready for the Writeoncon pitchfest.

Right now? This is how I feel about my MS:

It's just so pretty. There are wonderful phrases. It makes me laugh. There's some intense emotional scenes. It has poem/song things. It's so gorgeous.

And I know tomorrow it won't be so beautiful anymore.

Instead I will be thinking: "What is this baby? This isn't mine." But then I'll learn to love it anyway, just like the Hunchback.

And then eventually an agent will get their hands on it.

"Noooooo!!"

And then an editor will get their hands on it.

Only, if I should ever faint, I hope some
creepy man doesn't appear out of nowhere.

But for now:

"It's mine. My own. My Precious."

Now I just have to figure out the pitch part.