You know how you can have moments in your life where you want to hold onto them and keep them inside of you like a special secret that belongs only to you, and at the same time you want to shout it from the rooftops. That’s me. Right now.
I did it.
I finished a novel.
Draft zero was a hot mess of disorganization, and overwriting, and underwriting, and large plot holes you could lose yourself in. Editing that into the first draft, into a coherent whole, that someone else could look at. That’s where it took the most time, the most determination. I’m good at making draft zeros. I have lots of those skeletons in my closet. Hot messes who deserve more, but that I can’t give more to at this time.
But this is the first draft one. The first draft one where I have cut out the bits that don’t work. Where I have filled in the blanks. Where I have a cohesive storyline from start to finish. All of those words sound so mechanical, for the heavy lifting that was done.
This draft was like solving a complex math problem, with logic and poetry.
Guys, I did the thing.
I fucking did it.
More thoughts later….
I’m still in shock.