Just over a year ago, the thought of having 320+ pages of semi-coherent sentences all of my very own seemed like a ridiculous pipe dream. A novel? Like, a WHOLE one? With characters? Who do STUFF? In PLACES? SERIOUSLY?
I remember so clearly how I felt, staring at a book of notes and a blinking cursor and thinking THIS ISN’T POSSIBLE. I CANNOT DO THIS. I cannot write a story that has pacing and themes and tension and relationships and clues and boys and trees and feelings ALL AT THE SAME TIME. NOBODY CAN DO THAT. IT’S WIZARDRY. DEVILRY. CHICANERY.
But I could write a sentence and a scene and a funny exchange, and a beginning and a middle and an end, and I could write kissing and fighting and swearing. And I did. And I have a book.
And it has many, many flaws.
But it exists. And I did that.
In the dark, when I’ve been staring at a single sentence for a week straight and wondering why it won’t fix the tension in a scene 60 pages later, and I’m convinced I’m a failure and a time-waster and an all-around mouth-breather, and I’d suck at Glee SingStar (I’d OWN Glee Singstar), and I’ve wasted 13 months of my life and I should burn all my pens and stop shaving my legs, and even extra-depressing epsiodes of Supernatural can’t make me feel better because my mind is dripping slowly down the front of my shirt, I sometimes forget that. I spend so much time not looking up, putting one foot in front of another — this verb, this sentence, this scene — that I forget how far I’ve already come. And I forget how much I already know.