I was surfing around on the internet the other day, looking on writing blogs, and I found something that was surprisingly encouraging. It was a comment by Muneraven on one of the pages of a really interesting blog called DeepGenre, and here is what it said:
I just finished my first novel. Over 540 pages. My second proofreader is going through it now and then I will do one last rewrite and send it out into the world, where I will find out if anyone but me (and my proofreaders, bless them) loves it.
The thing that most surprised me when I finished it is that I am glad I did it no matter what happens next. I did indeed write it to share with other people, and I want it to be published, but even if it never gets made into a real book, I feel quite happy and proud to have written it nonetheless. I thought I would feel more angst-y about the difficulties of achieving publication. Instead I feel I learned so much and worked so hard that the process itself has great value to me.
I just wanted to share that with first-novel writers. It’s quite something to finish. It’s worth all those days when you couldn’t find your way in the story and you mashed your forehead on the keyboard until you have little squares on your face for the rest of the day.
This was surprisingly encouraging to me, because I can definitely see this happening to me. My novel is looking to be about 500 pages double spaced (maybe a little less), and hearing from somebody who did what I’m doing and finished it really makes it easier for me to see myself in the same position.
The really interesting part was that she said that once she got to the end, she was surprised that that was enough in itself–that it didn’t matter so much what happened next. I can definitely see myself feeling that way.
Even if this book doesn’t get picked up by a major publisher, I think it’s something that my children (and possibly grandchildren) will appreciate, at least. How cool would it be to learn that one of your parents wrote a novel, and to read that novel? How special would that make you feel, as a child, to read something that your father wrote that nobody else has seen?
Of course, my ambitions don’t stop there–I am going to send this novel out and try to get it published–but that has never been my primary reason for writing it. If it got rejected by every publisher, I’d be bummed out, but I wouldn’t see it as wasted effort.
I’m writing this story because, to put it simply, that’s what I do. That’s the main motivation for me. I’ve been writing stories all my life and I won’t ever be able to stop (even as a missionary I had that urge), so I’m trying to take this talent and develop it. It’s not the primary thing that defines my life–it’s not even my primary career path–but it is a very important part of who I am. And because of that, just the very act of finishing a full length novel will be a thrilling success for me, a milestone.
I can definitely see myself looking back in a month or two, with a completed rough draft, and saying exactly the same thing as this person in this comment. That’s what makes it encouraging–I can see where I’m going. And I’m excited to get there!
Today’s writing went really well. I went to the LRC after working out and it just flowed out of me. Relaxing, in a constructive way. I wasn’t counting, but I think I put out about 1,200 words, plus made some final edits for Memoirs of a Snowflake, which I’ll be submitting to the Mayhew contest this year.
And now, my friend Steve wants to use his computer again, so I’m getting off.
