It’s both a satisfying and sad feeling. You’ve been at it for months, spending nights and weekends in front of tiny laptop screen passionately punching out the words to your story.
After weeks and weeks of outlining, drafting, revisions, character development, bouts of writer’s block, doubt, chocolate splurges and excitement beyond anything you’ve ever felt, you’ve reached those two words.
When I finished writing my first book, THE PANACEA, I cried. The ending was emotional in and of itself, but I couldn’t grasp that this project I’d spent a year of my life on was over. At least for now. The story was complete at 50,000 words, and I was proud of it.
I finished my book in July of this year, for real. I say that because I’d thought I’d finished it in December 2017. I’d reached the ending I’d always envisioned for this story, but it still felt lacking. It was only until a literary agent suggested I make it a little longer that I realized I had more work to do.
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