September 10, 2014 at approximately 9:30 in the morning, I finished the first draft of my book. I promptly broke out the bottle of sparkling cider I'd been saving for the occasion and my dear husband (without whom I'd never have been able to do ANY of this!) and I toasted my triumph
There is a lot of work left to be done--edits and revisions, and I even had an idea this morning for a brief epilogue--but the draft of the story is complete. It was such an amazing feeling that I immediately burst into tears (over the cider). After months of planning, pre-writing, brainstorming, traveling to Iowa, reading and rereading Emily's diary, plotting what to do with characters and wondering how I would actually transfer the ideas in my head onto the page--it's finally done.
And I am pleased!
I've sent the draft out to several people and they are currently in the midst of reading it through for me while I sit waiting to hear from them and hoping that I haven't just spent the last few months writing unintelligible drivel.
They have two weeks and I am trying not to worry that it's terrible.
But good or bad, I'm pleased that it's finished, and I'm enjoying the fact that I finished it exactly two weeks before my self-imposed deadline. I'm also pleased that I have two weeks left before I head back to finish my last quarter of graduate school.
But at the moment, I'm remembering the words my committee chair said to me on the day he agreed to direct my thesis/project. He told me that when I was finished, I'd have a completed manuscript for my first novel, and they'd give me a Master's degree for writing it. But it was his last words that are ringing in my ears right now: "What could be better than that?"
What, indeed?
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