So I finished my first novel yesterday–well, the first novel I will actually confess to having written, the first novel I can actually envision maybe someday seeing the light of day. I didn’t post anything about it because completing that final chapter did not leave me on a high. I didn’t pour a glass of wine, do a Pharrell happy dance or even give myself a pat on the back. I actually found the moment to be sadly anti-climactic.
The entire project (20 657 words for younger readers) has been years percolating and months in the writing. It has been interrupted by family vacations, emergencies and just plain busy times. Even the final chapter–the final chapter of a 20 657 word novel; can I not get a break?–was interrupted at least 3 times and is now drivel on a page. While my rough drafts always need massive editing, this one sucks all the more as every creative impetus was squelched by phones ringing and doors being knocked upon. (And I feel no sympathy to the fresh-faced Edward Jones financial advisor who rapped on my door as I began to write the final sentence. In my recollection, I see only red and I’m certain I greeted him with nostrils flaring and breathing fire. I will never know what that final sentence was meant to be.)
However, today, as I open the file to survey the potential carnage–as the little pen icon in my Word document scribbles back and forth across the screen, showing it’s accessing all 20 657 words–I’m having my moment, my moment of looking down at this new little thing I have just created, and of wondering what it will become and where it will go…