Another night in the office, sitting in front of the laptop while the house sleeps. I stare down at my 84,000 words and counting. …and I want it so bad.
This is an insane thing to feel sad about!!! I mean, the goal has always been to finish the novel. Why am I not psyched? I’ve enjoyed every second of writing it. Some of my fondest memories have been those magical nights of click-click-click, when the writing wouldn’t stop and the tops of my thighs burned from the heat radiating from the back of the laptop. PM would turn into AM. I would spend hours lost in a scene, feeling like the entire world had been blocked out and my characters were a second life no one knew I had. A secret life, all my own. I’d wake up in the morning, after a 2 hour attempt to sleep. Pour my coffee. Ship the kids off to school. Cater to some “dire” PTO obligation. All the while, thinking, “I wish it was midnight already, so I could write while the world sleeps.”
To a writer, a novel is never finished. I’ve spent the last seven months dissecting every paragraph to know that’s a fact. But in the technical aspect of things, my novel is just shy of complete. And I’m ashamed to admit: it’s sad. All this build-up to send it into a sea of people who might read one or two pages at most, then follow up with a shallow judgment on its future. It’s not the rejection letters I visualize; its the publication. The stabbing assumption that even if I do get published, the chances of it reaching its intended audience is still just a wishful thought. A pipe dream.
But for now, I just focus on the close. Perfect my query. Scroll thru and doctor all those pesky adverbs. Wait for friends to send back some pages. Set aside all those “cuts” I made and store them in a electronic folder marked SOMETHING.
It’s sooooooooooooooo freakin’ cliché to say it but…it really does feel like a child I gave birth to, raised, groomed, gave it everything I had, and now I’m sending it off. And I’ll be alone again. I’ll pen other books and there will surely be more endless nights of click-click-click, but something tells me, nothing…NOTHING…will hold a comparison to the love I have for this book. My first born.
My first novel. My last true love.