Last week I painted my nails black, cast a few spells, spent two days whispering a 400+ page manuscript to myself, and then, on the evening of what would’ve been my mother’s eighty-first birthday, I sent a book-shaped thing called The Witches of New York to my keen-eyed literary agent, Helen Heller. You’d think by now I wouldn’t get jittery during this part of the writing process, but I do. I do! (Just ask my dear family.) It’s to be expected, I guess, because by the time I reach this point, I’ve become quite attached to the story and its …