A few weeks ago I sat at my kitchen counter and bid my husband good luck as he took our three kids to soccer practice. I was determined to finish my novel and you know what? I did. I finished and then I typed THE END. My fingers hovered over the keys and my eyes darted to the word count: 83,864.
A sob got caught in my throat and I swallowed it down. The door to the garage opens and my kids loudly bounce into the room, my husband trailing behind. No one notices at first. It’s just mom in front of her computer again, what’s new. Though this time the tears came, and they came so fast I couldn’t speak. The four of them stop, frozen, unsure what terrible news must have their leader falling apart. I choked out, “I finished my novel.”
My husband cheers and the kids are totally confused. I catch my breath and say to them, “Sometimes we cry when we’re really happy.”
The feeling was so big. I set out to write a book and it’s written. I know there is a mountain still ahead of me to climb, I’m not naive in the process even though it’s my first time. Before I start that quest I’m going to celebrate the achievement of writing the first draft. I’m also going to let this story simmer while I work on something new.
I wrote a book. Now I need to make it into something others want to read.
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