When I’m not momming, adulting, working, blogging, Netflixing… I’m writing.
And after all the YEARS of writing, back tracking, trying to be one of those elusive “pantsers” who bust out a novel in the month of November. The sheer amount of sticky notes, index cards, notebooks, napkins, lost and found thumb drives, thousands of words written and deleted, cups of coffee, my questionable Google searches that always end up with explanations along the lines of “I promise I’m not a murderer, I’m writing a book” or “I swear I’m not pregnant, I’m naming a character.”
Through all of that.
I WROTE A BOOK.
I’m a writer!
I actually finished writing my first draft back in August. And since then, it’s been reading and re-reading THOUSANDS of words that I wrote.
Since that moment there have been many, many, many, mixed emotions.
“Crap. Utter crap.”
“Oooo, that’s good.”
“THIS WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY!”
“Please, Mom. Don’t ever read this.”
“This is the most magnificent piece of crap I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I go from feeling like all those years of writing Harry Potter Fan Fiction had made this my purpose in life. To wondering why in the hell I actually spent so long doing this.
I guess that’s what happens when you edit your own work.
But before the editing process, a.k.a the process of realizing you suck at grammer, typing, and speaking in general… there is the part where you print.
I’ve known I’ve had a crapton of words written. Believe me. When you hit 86,000 words or 20,000 words, it kind of smacks you in the face.
But when you actually print it out. It’s a whole different story. (Enjoy that pun)
I got paranoid thinking I hit print twice when my printer just kept pumping out page after page.
I took pictures like I’d just rescued a puppy from the animal shelter.
I stroked the pages.
I creepily stroked the pages some more.
But I’m allowed.
Because I wrote a book!