4+ years and 70,000 words later, it’s finished.
My first novel is done.
It is so strange to write those words and even harder to take them in. Justin and Emma have been with me for so long now that it’s very difficult to imagine days not spent in their presence. Their story has changed so much from what I originally intended. But in a good way. I always intended this to be more Emma’s story than anything. And it still is. I wasn’t prepared, however, for the fact that Justin had a story to tell as well. So I’ve decided it’s not necessarily Emma’s story or Justin’s I’m telling---it’s their story. Their combined story of grace and forgiveness.
What’s also hard for me to take in is that I’ve completed a full-length novel. Up until now, the only stories I’ve ever completed were short ones of no more than 20 pages in length (at the longest). And now... 70,000 words written.
And I don’t know how to feel about that. I’m giddy and sad all at the same time.
Is this normal? Who knows.
There’s also an element of fear.
What if nobody likes it? What if people hate it and leave me scathing reviews. Or, what if none of the publishing companies want it???
On the other hand, just whom did I write this for anyway? For other people? Or for me? If I’m pleased with the story, it shouldn’t matter what anyone else says. In fact, I can about guarantee someone (most likely multiple someones) won’t like it. And I’ll probably cry and be depressed.
But that’s okay.
I just have to remember why I wrote it.
There is one undeniable fact to remember:
I wrote a novel.
And that’s something to be ridiculously proud of regardless of what happens.