I’ve been meaning to write about this for a while, but it’s really hasn’t been on the forefront of my mind.
I finished the first draft of my
novel work-in-progress. Like 2 months ago.
There it is. 179 pages, 79,405 words of ABSOLUTE shit.
But, it’s MY shit, and that makes me proud.
I won’t even begin editing it until the summer, and to be honest, the thought of editing seems more daunting than writing it. There’s just so much to fix.
But, I’m letting it go for now. For now, I know it’s just a really shitty first draft, but that it can get better, hopefully much better. For now, I’m thinking of how I accomplished something I never in a million years thought I could or would. I learned a lot about what it means to be a writer and how difficult it can be and how I know absolutely nothing about the craft and yet, I still did it (Who told me only people with MFAs or PhDs could be writers? Ha. Shakespeare didn’t have an MFA [though let me make it clear that I was not inferring a comparison between me and Shakespeare).
But you know what I learned most of all? I really, really liked the entire process, despite the frustrations. I never saw myself as a writer and now I crave it as my career.
Maybe that’s just a pipe dream, but for now, that thought, that dream satiates me.