I finished it. The book. Well, the second draft of the book.
I should probably be more excited about this. Instead, I'm terrified. Because I've finally let the novel out of its cage, to run free and frolic and get mowed down by a humvee.
As of one hour ago, about a dozen boys and girls, native and non-native English speakers, friends on all hemispheres, have gotten their grubby little hands on my baby. They shall be named the Dirty Dozen. The jury of my peers. The ones who are 230 pages away from telling me my novel is shit.
At times like these I wish I had never started the damn thing. What's the point if you're just going to humiliate yourself and disappoint everybody? My friends will say, so what? So what if it's bad? At least you've written it.
But what's so cool about writing a bad novel? Should I wear that proudly like a badge of honour? "Hey guys, I made myself unemployed once so I could write the most boring 61,000 words known to man. Jealous?"
Okay, okay, I'm calming down now. I'm just one of those people that does not do well with being judged. And between the grueling interview process I'm going through, plus waiting for the Dirty Dozen's verdict, I'm not making life easy for myself right now. Talk about stepping beyond your comfort zone.
But hey, at least I have you.
PS: A shout-out to the true writers and fellow bloggers Karin and Sion for inspiration the other day. And the Montmartoise, for a truly inspiring pizza.