It lies on the kitchen table like a tipped tombstone, this year of late nights and early mornings, of exhilaration and frustration, of too much coffee and too few showers. The Froot Loops box is prostrate, casualty of another rushed breakfast. The kids are out the door. The dog is bark-begging back in. The spouse is gridlocked, Van Halen blasting him into the past if only for one more exit. His parting word to you, “finally.” You repeat the word in whisper even though you know better. This is just another beginning. But it’s done. Your first novel. Or your tenth. Drafted, redrafted, written and re-written. You run your finger…