There comes a day in every writer’s life when they must type these words.
I’ve resisted calling myself a writer or an author, because I’ve never written those words on something significant. Sure, I’ve finished a few short stories, but my novel WIP was something that seemed like it never would get done. Other people might argue that since I write regularly (this blog, a newspaper column) then I am a writer. I never felt like I was there.
Until this weekend.
On Sunday evening I sat on the couch, my laptop warming my legs. I finished the last sentence of my novel. Set the laptop down to think about it. Picked it up, read the last chapter and reconsidered.
Then I typed, “The end.”
I finished the first draft of a labor of love. I started with the initial idea and first couple of chapters in 2005. Yes, it took me this long! I thought about giving up several times. It never seemed right to quit though.
After 60,000 words (what the word processor counts, not including all the erased words that didn’t make the cut), I had the basis for a novel. I could say it.
I had written a book.
Well, I finished the first draft. Which I count as significant, since so many people say they’re going to write a book and never do it. I vowed last year to not be that person.
*Looks at his watch, taps his chin*
Oh, you’re still here? Cool. Me too.