I Finished the 1st Draft

I finished the first draft of my novel.

94,432 words.

Twenty-two months of inconsistent writing.

I am a writer.

After a 3,000 word marathon, only minutes before the school bus’s flashing lights would signal my time was up, I typed those beautiful words I never thought I would have the privilege to see upon my screen: The End.

That may sound dramatic, but this writing shit is hard. I’ve stumbled and almost given up and faced nearly depression-worthy writer’s block for months at a time.

I took time off to blog more, to deal with medical issues, to search for a ‘real’ job, to spend time with my family.

I hid from the story lurking on my computer because I was terrified I had no clue what I was doing. I feared I possessed not a single drop of talent.  I convinced myself everything I ever learned about grammar, structure, and storytelling had been banished from my brain and replaced with soccer schedules, recipes, and the theme songs to every children’s televisions show aired over the last eight years.

I convinced myself I couldn’t do it.

But then I had to prove myself wrong.

It may be an absolutely horrid waste of words not fit for even the most illiterate and ignorant reader to despise.

It may be the absolute shittiest of shitty first drafts.

But it’s there.

The story cannot be edited, fixed, transformed into something of beauty and grace and depth until I give it a life on the page.  The awkward caterpillar comes before the butterfly (and this creature is ugly, smelly, and missing a few legs). Now to figure out how the hell this metamorphosis thing works.

Let’s just hope it doesn’t take another two freaking years.

Cheers.


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