I finished the first draft of my novel last night. I'm just going to call it a novel, dear reader, not because I enjoy taking liberties, but because it sounds a bit disingenous to call it a story at this point. I'm not one to put on airs, but false modesty bugs me even more. Novel, story, whatever the proper term: I finished the first draft of it last night.
I'm a bit in disbelief, to be honest. As usual, it was not the moment I anticipated, the skies didn't open and fill with heavenly hosts or anything like that.
No it was rather more like the experience of an obstinate mountain climber: delerious and frostbitten, catching glimpses of the summit, yet too starved of oxygen and common sense to head back to camp.
Oh well. Thank goodness it plays out prettier in my mind.
At any rate...now what? Well, for the next little while, not much. I plan to let it sit a few days, then come back and embark upon the delightful (I'm being completely sincere when I say that) journey of revision.
But beyond that...what else? Who knows? I went for a run this morning and suddenly realized I was free to explore other avenues of creativity once again. For the longest time, I've been like that mountain climber, doggedly stuck on one slope, refusing to come down while my face freezes off.
Now I think I might hop along and do something else. I've been thinking about drawing again, perhaps reopening my Etsy shop. I've been wanting to compose music. Every once in awhile I dream of making more dolls. It feels wonderful to let these thoughts weave back into my landscape.
Still, writing. I think it is my truest love. I hope this story is good. I hope it is beautiful and simple and resonant. It comes from the deepest place in my heart and it has been one of the greatest experiences to draw it out, to coax it into words and make it all real.