I have, after almost a year of writing, finished the first draft of my first fiction novel.
Time to pop the champagne and have a celebratory dinner out.
But I’m not as thrilled as you would think.
Sure, I am happy. And I’m proud of myself. This took a lot of my time and effort and enormous amounts of understanding from my family. And I have a pile of pages in front of me, freshly printed out from Kinkos and trapped in a binder.
I know there is a ton of work ahead of me. Rough drafts are called rough for a reason. This book is so rough it could scrape the barnacles off a boat. While I’m trying to be happy and feel a sense of relief about finishing this book, I know that there are scenes in there that need to be immediately banished and burned. Those thoughts, lurking around my brain and making my chest tight, are driving me forward. I see the work ahead and it is massive.
And I can’t wait to get to it!!
I am excited to edit. I can’t wait to get in there and start making it the book it is meant to be.
I hope I can do my characters and ideas enough justice that one day you can read this story. But I am also okay with it being a practice book. Every author has one or two or three of those lurking in a drawer somewhere. And they should. (I certainly do.) Just because you read books doesn’t mean that you know how to write books.
But still I hope that one day you will read this book I am working on.
Or you can read the next one. 😉