I have completed the first draft of my second novel.
A year ago I would hardly have believed I could write the manuscript for one potential novel, never mind two. Yet, here I sit, in my usual writing spot (on the sofa, feet up, laptop balanced on a tray on my knee wearing my luxurious Slanket) having written ‘The End’ on my second endeavour in the novel writing world.
It doesn’t quite feel as exhilarating as the first time around. It is of no less an achievement. It may even be a slightly greater, given that some often don’t even finish a first, and those that do may never go on to write a second. Still, I’m not jumping up and down, screaming it from the rooftops and informing everyone who has had to put up with my writerly ways; which is pretty much what I did last time. Only three months ago – it feels like three years ago!
It has affected my confidence in quite a dramatic sense, however. Suddenly I actually believe I can write novels. This may be somewhat misplaced – since I’m only 60 pages into reading my first foray into the novel writing business – but I feel that I’m over the biggest hurdle. I have proven to myself that I can sit down and write. I have even managed to create some form of story, along with characters and conflict and even possibly a little bit of plot.
Perhaps now comes the hard part: critiquing my own work and rewriting what doesn’t work.
Still, nothing can take away from the fact that I have finished writing two novels. I’m not claiming they’re good novels, but they’re still novels. And I wrote them. Go me. 8o)