Another novel finished, another novel in the bag. (at least a first draft)
I finished The Michigan Triangle this week, and that makes it my *digs out calculator* my 9th novel. The 6th first draft of a novel I’ve written in 4ish years. (I think I did that math right) UM, wow what?
And how many of these have I edited? Haha, ONE.
It’s a strange thing to write the words THE END. I don’t always get a thrill or a sense of excitement. Maybe because I know how it is absolutely not the end of the journey. Editing makes sure you hang around and don’t say goodbye to that story.
But it’s also a strange sort of accomplishment. It IS an accomplishment, that’s for sure (“That’s for sure, that’s for dang sure!”) but it’s a very quiet, almost unnoticeable kind of accomplishment. You’re far from done. You still gotta edit, and then there’s the publishing journey which is a whole ‘nother monster.
And you sit there, typing the words THE END, at the dull hour of 11pm. You sit back and turn off the playlist of Hans Zimmer and Creedence Clearwater. It’s done. You (me) wrote a book.
Then life moves on. You put it in a drawer and go back to work, but you look up out of the windows is the light filters through heavy green trees, a late afternoon summer sun speckling through –
Oh gosh. *rolls eyes*
But here’s the thing: back in high school (when I was in high school specifically. I don’t know why I’m talking in 2nd person but I feel like it), finishing a first draft was sort of this awesome, almost unattainable goal, this far off trophy in the distance. You had to race far and hard to get it. If you ever.
Then slowly, I finished each book of the fantasy trilogy I was working on (I either finished it senior year or the year after I honestly can’t remember). Then I started working on other projects, and the novels came cranking out. Or hiccuping. I don’t know why but I think hiccuping is a better description.
Writing THE END became a thing that happened, I thing I could make happen, instead of something far in the distance.
Now the thing in the distance is a polished manuscript, and farther, a published book.
I guess this is basically just a rant about how our perspectives change blah blah blah. But the thing I really want to get to is the weirdness of finishing a book.
Like, you did it! You wrote a book! And???
Maybe this is a milestone for you, it’s your first one, you’ve worked for years on it, you go out and celebrate and buy yourself a book or whatever. Or is just the next in the line of first drafts that you finished.
I guess what I’m saying is, I feel like this is something I should be really excited about. Take the rest of the day off kind of thing. But of course we get in all sort of trouble when we say we are supposed to feel a certain thing. It’s stupid.
We don’t have to feel anything.
Ok, we’re just gonna move on from this.
Anyway so I was watching Divergent (UGH I need to do a post about this movie. I don’t care how long ago it came out I ADORE this movie and it means so much to me and it’s a piece of cinematic beauty asghagashfgjsd) And the part where her brother is like:
“Were you going to help her?” (meaning the old lady who dropped her bags)
and Tris is like, “I was thinking of helping her.”
Yep, that’s how we introverts roll. I guess I should hep her. But what should I say? Will she think it’s rude? And then the situations over and you’re like, “well that’s my problem right there.”
We’ll just end here.