My first novel
The other day I realized that my first novel is almost complete. I’ve been working on it for ages and I’m excited to say that I might be past 92% of completion. It’s been a long journey and it feels so good to have the zillionth draft printed out, fresh and ready so I can read and detect those little beasts that need to be adjusted and eliminated and destroyed. The story has a few things that I need to change, but I’ll tackle everything till the plot makes perfect sense.
Anyway, this is a short blog. I just wanted to post something about this book of mine because it’s my first novel ever and I’m bursting with feelings of all sorts. At times I’m anxious to get the job done so I can hopefully see the story published; other times I’m feeling down because the dark part of my mind convinces me that the book is crap and nobody will like it; and other times I’m plain happy because I’m working on something that I love.
But I put all that aside and I don’t care. Positive and negative feelings come and go all the time, and all I need to do to get myself up is to remember that I wrote a book. It feels weird saying that. “I wrote a book.” Even writing it feels weird, holy crap. I wrote a book and I should be proud of myself. I’ve accomplished something that lots of people only dream of. A few people I know have talked about wanting to write something, and all of them end up saying with a shrug: “At least I tried.” I’m glad I never said those words. I’m glad I never shrugged and gave up. I’m glad I kept on writing to this very day, this very moment. A moment in which I can finally say: “I wrote a book.”