First Draft. Finished. Complete. Done. Over.

As of 10 PM on 25 June, 2010, I became the proud "owner" of a completed manuscript.

Completed first-draft.

I wrote The End.

Well, Y made me go back and write, The End, after I had saved everything and closed down the file with a satisfied smile on my face.

So, I had to open everything back up and then re-save to my thumb drive. The End had to be backed up in case of fire.

Of course, as I was writing the last chapter, all I could think was, I write crap, I write crap, I will never be Jenny Crusie when I grow up because I write crap.

Maybe one day. Maybe some day. I will actually think, no, this is ok. But not last night. Not today.

Not when I am thinking about conflict and theme and core story and all that kind of thing. Not when I am thinking, I haven't any of that. I couldn't identify it in the novels and shortstories Dr Galvin had us read in 11th and 12th grades and I'm not certain I can identify it in my own book.

So don't ask me.

But all that aside. All that ignored. I completed my first novel and I am really rather dead chuffed with myself.

I told the Crit Group. The Rockville 8.

We yahooed.

I told my family. I called a friend. I wrote Joe.

I made an appointment to meet with an editor at RWA.

(Oh shit. What was I thinking?)

But my book is written. Far far far from complete. But it is written. It is The Ended.

I am now a novelist.

With my very own, hand-written, brand-spanking-new Novel.

On Needing Alan

Perhaps this should be a short one.

Today, I read Shakespeare and in my mind heard Alan Rickman reading it. There was lots of moan and moaning and even a bemoaned (emph on the ed) and woe. O and Alan Rickman. They are good friends of mine.

Especially when they come together.

Afraid of the Finish

2.5 months later...

And writing is still hard. But I've done it. I have written nearly 30K in this time. And despite the bears scaring the hell out of M and me in Massanutten, despite being distracted, despite my crit group tearing up what I wrote and having visceral reactions to my hero and heroine, despite fear over my finances and job prospects, despite all this. I kept writing.

And now, dark moment idea'd but not perfectly formed, I am in the home stretch and I am finding it so difficult. I mean, wow. Time for a whinge because I am not racing towards that end. I am not seeing it and thinking, Yahoo! I am a novelist! I am a finisher!! Instead, I am thinking, a handful of scenes from the end, why am I doing this and what is the point and why finish it.

oh. hell.

I recently put a post up on my other blog ( http://rockville8.blogspot.com/2010/05/on-becoming-finisher.html ) about becoming a finisher. That the only sure-fire way to getting published was finishing the novel. And now that I am within spit of it, I am slowing down. I am gazing at it. I am looking at the finish line and the prize and wondering, really, is it worth it? I am so ready for the snide comments, for the dismissal, for the "so what? wait til you've finished the 20th" that I am not wanting to keep going.

Suddenly, I am afraid. Really afraid. I mean, I've gotten over the hump of telling people I write Romance and want to publish with Harlequin Presents. I'm telling everyone. No matter how much I respect them, no matter how long I've known them - or in what context, no matter how much money they make or how successful they are. I am telling them that yes, I am writing a romance novel. A Presents. White cover with a circular illustration.

And you know what? Everyone, everyone, even if they have never read a romance, tells me, great and congrats and I'll read yours when it's published. So why why why am I so afraid of this finish line? Why am I so afraid of completing this project? Why am I such a yella-bellied scaredy-cat?