I finished writing my second novel.
Three years, you guys.
Three years of blood, sweat, and tears. (And ink stains?) Three years of banging my head against the keyboard. Three years of sobbing into my hands when things felt too daunting to go on.
And three years of LOVING this story, despite it all. Because that’s the only way I could have pushed through: how deeply I cared about this book underneath all the struggle.
I’m still in a state of shock. I expected to be whooping and cheering, or even crying, but instead I feel… like I can’t even believe it.
This book felt like it would never, ever, ever end. That tunnel was so long and so dark, and the light at the end was so small.
And then suddenly, as if I’d been distracted by some weird glop stuck to my shoe or something, I looked up and BOOM. I was at the end.
I know exactly where I was when I started typing out the first words. On a plane, heading back to California after a visit to Orlando, Florida, in mid-April of 2013. I’d thought of the book’s premise before the trip, but the details weren’t fleshed out. With nothing else to do in the amusement park lines than talk, I started brainstorming ideas with my boyfriend for the story’s universe. I was still in the midst of my first novel and had planned on waiting til that was done before getting sucked into the second, but all that idea-juicing got me excited and I couldn’t hold it anymore, so on the plane I whipped out my laptop, set the font to 8-point so no one behind me could read it, and began.
And here I am, three years and two-ish months later. Done. (And a good few weeks before my self-imposed deadline!)
Well, no, it’s not actually “done.” I have about a billion revisions to make, which will probably take another three years to complete, hahahahaha *forced laughter with wild HELP-ME eyes*
But in all seriousness, this book has been exhilarating. I’m thrilled to be done, but also thrilled that I don’t have to leave it yet, that there’s still work to do so I can stay in its world. I love it. ❤