Yesterday marked my novel’s second birthday, yet I did little in my quest to celebrate it. So I’m going to do more. I’m so close to the finish line–literally just 4,000 words away–I’m so elated I’m posting about it on my blog left, right, and center. I’m normally so careful with myself, with where I post about what I’m writing. Generally, I’m just paranoid about whether people will steal my ideas. Make no mistake–I’m still being super careful with my novel (you won’t even get to know the protagonist’s name, or the symbolism of the blue eye with fire surrounding it on my self-designed cover)–but, hey, a girl can celebrate, can’t she?
Writing a novel has been my number one on my bucket list for years now. This novel, specifically, has only been there for two
(maybe three? I’m bad at math at 11 PM) years, but that’s still a pretty long time. April 1st, to me, isn’t April Fool’s Day (I actually generally don’t celebrate, being the super-unenthusiastic person I am)–it’s (a) the start of Camp NaNoWriMo and (b) my novel’s birthday.
Finishing my novel… well, two years is a long time, and I barely even know what it’s like not to be writing a novel. Ever since I finished my first novelette, Penneastrum, my novels have been on the back of mind constantly. I guess as a six-time winner of NaNoWriMo, I should know how it feels to finish a novel, a longer work with characters you just love and get attached to, but I don’t.
I just recently experienced the closure of my first novel when my mother pushed me to publish my unedited first draft on a writing website so I could get critiques. It’s been lovely being able to going back and read (the parts of) my novel (that don’t make me groan with misery), but when that happened I was still dedicated to another project, namely, this one.
But it’s been long enough. Take my advice, muscle through it, and it’ll all be okay (once you revise).
Oh, and here’s the bit of my novel I posted earlier in a post less-qualified to contain it:
My mother had always said that eyes were the key into a man’s soul; sometimes, when the rest of them is hooded and masked in their youth, their eyes are the key to their elderliness, their fragility, everything they hold dear to them. All in their eyes. It was true for him, at least at this moment, looking into his eyes. I was intrigued and frightened at the same time, afraid to look into those complex, saddened eyes, and yet the truths and secrets written in their depths fascinated me. — Chapter 50
Wishing writing novels wasn’t emotionally difficult,