I try to keep my writing a secret in real life. Other than the occasional contest win or the very rare writing buddy, my friends are really not aware that I write at all.
The reason behind this is that none of them really… write. I mean, I have a couple who are into short stories, or even poetry, but none of them are really hard-core, buckle-down-and-write novelists. They are simply not the novel-going type. Yesterday, one of my friends managed to find the link to my blog via Tumblr, and somehow managed to find my novels page amid all the mess.
Well, anyways, the moment she found out I had written a novel, the first question out of her mouth was, of course, “Can I read it?”
No. No, you may not read it. Not that novel, out of the many hundreds of novels out there in the world. Please, go find another novel; in fact, I will find one for you, but you may not read MY novel.
Writers, only you will understand what I am saying.
Only you will understand that I am saying this, not out of harsh cruelty, but out of love for my noveling career.
You see, this novel in question is unedited. It is disgusting. It is filled with plot threads and unfinished characters, and people that completely disappear halfway through the story. (Sorry, Ames!) It is completely and unequivocally horrendous. I won’t even let my writing buddies read it.
I realize that most people only ever read books in their perfect stage, after they have been written, rewritten again, edited, copy-edited, changed, rewritten, rewritten twice more, edited, changed, copy-edited, and then finally published by a big-name publisher.
If I ever showed my novel to anyone outside of my writing buddies circle… well, let it just be known that even my writing buddies would cringe in horror if they saw my novel. And they have seen a lot of my bad work. Yes, it’s that awful.
And now you know why your neighborhood writer will not let anybody see her novel’s first draft.
Aaaaaand back to studying for finals.