And by “you all,” I mean my husband and children, who are hoping to one day have a decent meal and clean laundry.
Here it is. The big announcement that isn’t an advertisement for deodorant. Last night, after four months of work, I finished my first novel in 25 years. I’ll pause here and let that sink in a minute. For me, not you. I am floored. 25 years.
It has been:
309 full moons
175 dog years
a quarter century
6 terms of presidential office
6 Aerosmith albums
The shelf life of a package of Twinkies
I knew early in the day that I was set to finish. I was giddy and gleeful all day, until I typed those magic words; “The End.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ll go for both.
Anyway, this is just the beginning of a long and painful process. I’ve put it away for now, letting it age like a fine wine while I work on some other things. I say wine and not cheese because I’m really hoping I don’t open it back up and find out it really stinks. And then come the rewrites. I’m not fooling myself. I have a lot of rewriting to do. And then I find beta readers. And decide if I’m going to pursue this one as my debut novel. I thought no at first, but now I’m not so sure. This may be the first one I put in an agent’s hands. It’s hard to imagine, like thinking about sending your kid to college when they’re still small enough to sleep in a crib.
It’s just a little baby novel yet. I’m going to give it a kiss and stick it in a drawer for a few weeks. Just like the baby books tell you to do.