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2003-09-15 Light at the End of the Tunnel I'm almost finished typing The Book. I have roughly 120 pages left, so I figure that I can finish it by Thursday or Friday if I type about 30 pages a day. Yesterday I typed 35, but that's not always so easy - it's constant typing, so after awhile, your hands feel about ready to fall off at the wrists. I'm pretty psyched at the thought that soon this arduous part of the process will be over. I remember back at the end of June when I finished writing the first draft by hand, that the typing seemed impossible to finish in any decent amount of time. 934 handwritten pages. But you know, once you get on a roll, it doesn't take long. The weird thing is that it doesn't feel real to me yet, that I wrote a book, or maybe it does feel real, but I don't feel the way I expected to. I'm totally proud of myself. I know that not everyone can write a book (or, lots of people can write a book but few are actually good - maybe I'm just afraid my book falls into the latter category). I know it's impressive, and during a telephone interview one time, when asked what accomplishment I was most proud of, I didn't give the usual response of having finished university, but said that it was writing a book. But I don't think I'm nearly as impressed as some others I've told. I'm pretty happy with the way The Book turned out - though i know there are many changes to be made - and I feel that it's good with the possibility of being very good, good enough for publication (maybe - this feeling comes and goes). But it also feels very natural for me to have written a book. What surprises me is that it took me so long. This was my first dream, to be a writer, and now I'm starting down that path. Is this how doctors and lawyers feel, the ones who've dreamed of those professions since their childhood? Are they happy they've gotten to that dream, but aren't quite as impressed as they thought they'd be? Or maybe it's because of my realism. I KNOW how difficult it is to get published. I know how difficult it is to become popular enough that publishing houses start demanding more. I love Seren and Tiernan and Golelug and all the rest of my characters. But will others? Will others love them enough to pick up Book Two when it's written? Maybe I need to get published before that utter amazement truly fills me. I mean, right now, it's simply mine. Natalie knows some of the plot, but not all of it and I did a shit job explaining it since I hadn't yet worked out a concise description (still haven't). But even though she knows a bit, it's still very personal - it's become a part of me and I guess that's why I haven't yet shared it entirely with anyone else. Another friend wants a sample, but I'm not ready to yet for anyone to read it. And it's not ready either. I can share my innermost secrets (MY secrets, not those of others), but this... I can't. It's fear, I know. What if someone tells me it sucks? I think my self-confidence would be shot down so low it might never recover. It's something I may have to face - when I start sending it out. I'll have to deal with it. But writing is who I am. I suddenly feel as though this is how I describe myself the most, it's the core of my personality, and if I lose that, I lose myself. Gah. Where did that all come from? This entry started off as me being psyched that the typing was almost done, and turned into this whole possibly-being-on-the-brink-of-losing-my-identity sort of thing. But I guess it stems from the very fact that I'm almost ready to enter the serious editing stage, and in that stage, I have to open the book up to others to get their feedback. And it terrifies me. I used to love reading my stories aloud to Natalie on the phone, but no more. It's nothing against Natalie - I feel that way about everyone I could let read it. I think the problem, or part of it, is that most of the people I know are picky about their literature, all in their own way. Most people are like that, including myself. But how sucky would it be to get negative feedback from the first person I allow to read it? Anyway. This is all part and parcel of the writing game. You spend months keeping it to yourself, keeping it locked up in your heart, and then the time comes when you have to open it up for people to do with it what they will.
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