After two and a half years of writing, I finally finished my novel last week! I celebrated with a glass of champagne and blissful shrieking of “I’m done! I’m done!” over and over again. I can officially call myself a novelist now, and I think I will go ahead and add that newly-earned title to all of my social websites (but not really).
I have sent my novel out to three different people from three different walks of life to read and critique. This especially makes me nervous because my novel has not been looked at for well over a year by anyone. Anyone. My biggest fear while writing it was, and still is, that I have wasted my time.
Though my confidence is in a strange place, I await their comments so I can get done the part I hate the most — editing. I cannot stand it, and it’s taken me three days to edit chapter one (mostly because Word mashed up the code and destroyed the first two or three chapters in my writing program).
Anywho. Here is proof that novels CAN be finished.
I think I will further celebrate by attending the Baltimore Book Festival over the weekend and maybe showing another chapter to the editors there for commentary. We will see!