So I finished the book.
Which is a big deal for me! I have written a bunch of stuff, but I have never actually written a novel. I knew this spring that this was the one, because in like two months I'd written more in it than I had in any other story ever. It was on hold for a bit because there was a thing I had to figure out, and then it was on hold for the entire summer due to scheduling issues with the kid.
But I jumped back on it in September, and aside from time I lost dealing with some other stuff, I steadily got there.
And now there is a book.
It's printed out on the coffee table downstairs. Next step is to reread it and make notes, make sure things are consistent, see what else needs to be layered into it. But.
I finished a book.
(It needs a title. The working title was too whimsical and so must be changed, but also it's too perfect, because it's the name of a series within the world of the book, which is why it's stuck as the working title. Only ashlyme
has read the whole thing. Adam will soon (he's read the first half). Maybe they can help me find the title.)
I don't really know what to do with myself right now! The past few weeks I have been in a constant state of writing or pissed at myself for not writing that very second. And now... yeah. I'm not ready to jump back on Cicatrix
- this one needs its editing pass first. WHAT DO, FRIENDS?