I Was Stunned

I typed the paragraph, stopped and looked at the screen. I really finished the last chapter. It felt good. If felt complete. I was stunned.

All that work for the last year, and I'd earned the right to type THE END. I've been editing, but now I seriously edit. But now I also compose a proposal, a query, a synopsis. How do you reduce 95,000 words to three pages and make it sound like a gold-plated winner?

This has been a tremendous few weeks. I moved into my new house. I laid 20 palettes of sod in my yard. I unpacked boxes until I could hardly stand. I finished a novel. Wow.

Not sure my family understands the phenomenal feat of writing a novel. Most people start and never finish one. I can consider myself in the minority now - someone who followed through. People tell me the voice is great and the story intriguing. I like that, but am afraid to listen to them. I need to hear it from an agent. I sent the first ten pages to an agent for critique at the annual SC Writer's Conference. I'm holding my breath, while I know I need to expect rejection, negative, advice on how to make it better. I'll take the latter, cringe at the other two.

But I must practice what I preach. When you invest yourself into a novel, you worry about exposing your feelings to strangers. After all, a novel is wrought with parts of a writer's insides. Her guts are smeared all over the page. Her feelings punctuate every sentence.

I'll edit. I'll edit until I cannot find another thing to change. Then I have two more novels in mind. One outlined and another a crisp thought. This novel thing never ceases, does it? Once you get used to writing one, you never want to quit. Kinda like reading a great book, then hating it when the story ends. Only this time it's in reverse. Like writing for ages then sending the baby to college. Painful but proud.