Hey guess what. (I keep forgetting to tell you stuff here.) I finished the novel I’ve been writing since 2014. I completed the story back in November, went through it again to make sure it wasn’t glaringly error-ridden, compiled the manuscript (Scrivener users will know what that means), and then went through it one more time to fix all the typos, weird page breaks, and errant font changes. In that last pass I also found places where I had made notes to myself like “write this scene” or “this needs more.” In retrospect and impatience, I decided that scene was useless, and that this didn’t need more after all. And so on.
And then I made the whole thing into a shareable file and sent it to a developmental editor and now it’s her project and I am taking a break from it and believe me, this is the most amazing feeling. It’s kind of like the relief of finally giving birth, having that existential and physical weight removed from you after a lifetime of it being a part of you. Once you get past the birth itself, now the real work begins, but in this early period you just get to be in love with your baby for a few days/weeks/months.
Right? Haha, of course! Just let me have this for a little while.
Anyway, that is why I decided that I can call myself an author now. It’s 2021, and much stranger things have happened, so why not?