So, I wrote a book.

Two years ago, when I was still a very lonely little graduate student working toward finishing her MFA (Creative Writing, Poetry, for which she will never find any sort of gainful employment, it seems), I had a dream. In it, a man and woman were lying on the ground; it was winter, and they were looking up at the stars, and one of them was telling the other about constellations: specifically, about a bear constellation, although it’s been so long since that dream that I can’t remember who was doing the explaining, and who was listening.

Somehow that evolved into an idea, and the idea into a story, and two years later I wrote an 84,000 word novel and then pared it down to 74,000 words. There was a whole lot of fat to cut from that first draft, and parts of it were absolutely terrible and it was not always fun to write, but I am so glad that I did it and I know that next time (because certainly there will be a next time) I will have to have an easier time of it than this time.

It’s November 1st, and for the first time in a long time I’m not thinking about NaNoWriMo. I’ve got more story ideas floating around; I know which one I’m going to write next, but I have a lot of work to do on finishing the outline of that skeleton before I’m ready to go all Frankenstein-electricity on it. Right now I’m waiting on my first reader (husband) to finish reading through this thing that I have written, and then I’ll try to make it better and better, and then I will try to find an agent, and we’ll see.

I thought that after writing a novel, I would feel different. I just feel tired.


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