Last year, in November, I wrote a book. Regular readers (and generous sponsors) will remember: I took part in National Novel Writing Month (nanowrimo) and wrote 50,000 words between the 1st and the 30th of November. Since I typed that last full stop, my ‘book’ has been languishing on the hard drive of my lap top like a lazy lounge lizard, and I have resumed with the rest of of my life. Of course, I always intended to go back to the book once my maternity leave started. Well, guess what? On Wednesday, it does.
The Book. I’m a little scared of it. I’ve also got plans for an e-book now too so I’m feeling conflicted about which one to concentrate on.
The Book. It’s daunting. I’ve never written so much on one plot at one time in one place before.
The Book. It’s not very good. As I was writing it, there were scenes that I just knew were ridiculous but I’d promised myself (and my nanowrimo buddies) that I wouldn’t delete. I just kept going, to that magical 50,000 word marker.
The Book. It’s time to read it. Can I even do such a thing? I know there are parts that do me and my writing huge justices. But there are also parts that I would snigger at if I had come across them as a reader. There are also parts that would make me put down the book for a day or two and remark that I could do a better job myself…
The Book. Can I really do a better job? Should I just leave it now and move on to other things? Should I keep my head down and never mention it again?
The Book. It’s one of my biggest achievements and one that I really should’ve done ages ago. It’s one that I promised my mum I would do before I turned 12 years old. It’s one which, for those who know me, was always expected of me.
The Book. It can either be my best friend or my worst enemy. I’m going to read it and decide which camp it falls into. Wish me luck.