i think there a few main things i’d like to say regarding this novel.
first, oh my god, i finished a novel. i mean, wow. i guess to some people it may not seem like a big deal, and in some ways i almost feel silly being so ecstatic about it, but i finished a novel. i haven’t written a new story since i was a freshman in highschool. i’ve always had the same stories stuck in me, they just never got out on paper in a way that i wanted. but this one…this one was a completely new idea. a world, and some characters, and no plot whatsoever. the writing of the novel was more adventurous than the novel itself, honestly. at least, for me. as i wrote, ideas and plot twists and characters and everything presented themselves. there were so many distinctions that separated this novel from everything else i’ve ever written. it displayed a real growth, at least to me, in my style, in my writing, and in my intentions while writing. basically, it was amazing to write it. it’s so full of overwhelming emotion for me. i can barely comprehend that i’ve finished a novel, let alone the fact that i’ve put so much of myself into it. so much of it hits close to home.
i guess another thing about it is just the overwhelming sadness that hit me when i got close to the end. everything written in the last two weeks of the month became really serious, and i started pulling things from my past into the novel to gain emotion. i doubt it will be as emotional for the reader, but damn is it emotional for me. on the last day, i wrote the last 15,000 words. it was devastating and moving and my heart is filled with grief and pain for my characters. i just don’t even know. i had forgotten how involved i am within my stories. i love my characters. sometimes more than real life people. i’m insane, i know. i’m also insanely involved. what the hell, me? anyway…
second to last (promise i’m finished soon!), i just want to say that i obviously do not write enough. i’m remembering, because of nanowrimo, what writing means to me. i’m remembering how much of myself i pour into my stories. i’m remembering the struggle, the angst, the ecstasy, and the satisfaction of finishing a story. of writing it all down. how could i have lost that key, key piece of myself? so, goal? keep writing. doesn’t matter what it is, i’m going to rewrite this novel. then i’m going to come up with another novel. i’m going back to writing, which was what i did as a child, until junior year of highschool. it changes and moves me in a way i can’t describe. yeah, i have other hobbies, but writing is me. i’m not sure when or where i forgot that.
