Last year, I’d edited, revised and rewritten like crazy until my manuscript was so polished it gleamed. It was finished. My beta readers heaped glowing praise upon me while I put my feet up, ate a chocolate hobnob and contemplated my next step. I’d written a novel!
That evening, I went to dinner with a friend.
‘You’ve finished your first book, how exciting,’ she said. ‘Is it any good?’
‘Yes,’ I topped up my wine, ‘but my next one will be better.’ What? Where did that come from? I smiled and nodded my way through the rest of the meal, while the inner me covered her face with her palms and shook her head. What was wrong with my book?
At home, I sat and thought. What wasn’t I happy with? Nothing too major, just……..the plot. Oh dear. It was time to pull it apart, ditch 50,000 words, and have another go.
Fast forward a few months and I was finished. I’d written a novel!
I met my sister for coffee.
‘Is it any good?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ I bit into a chocolate muffin. ‘There are a couple of chapters that are a bit slow, but the rest is great.’ Arrgghhh! The inner me wrung her hands and cried.
By November I’d weaved in a new plot line and ramped up the suspense. I was finished. I’d written a novel!
Christmas Eve I had an idea. I tried to ignore it, I was finished after all, but I was itching to rewrite, and Boxing Day found me sitting at my desk, not moving for days, until. I’d written a novel! Only this time I felt something I hadn’t felt before. Pride, satisfaction and the urge to open a bottle and celebrate, and so I did.
It finally feels complete.