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