So, about half an hour ago, I did a thing. I finished a book. But not just any book. My fifth book. A book that I began tentatively planning earlier this spring. A book that, when I made my goals for the year, I didn’t plan to start writing until around October. Did I imagine that I would actually finish this thing this year? Hell no. Did I imagine that once I moved out of my apartment, I’d be averaging roughly 5,000 words a day? That’s impossible. Did I think that I could jump from 35K to 75K in just six days? That’s ridiculous.
Yet I sit here, at work, with an hour left of my shift, and I was able to type something that resonates with, “This story will continue in the next book.”
My emotions right now are everywhere.
I feel powerful.
I feel excite. So excite, I mean, so dang excite, I’m completely forgetting the finer points of grammar! (If you completely missed that reference, stop reading this celebratory post and go watch this video by Olan Rogers. You’re welcome.)
I feel on top of the world.
I am in shock and complete and utter awe.
I feel apprehensive, as I cannot contain this freak out moment of being so excited, so I’ve texted everyone close to me, blasted it on social media and now I’m writing this blog post; apprehensive that people will think I’m bragging or riding on a high horse. But I can’t help it.
I’m just so damn stoked.
I’ve written five books, you guys. Five freaking novels have been penned by my fingers slamming down on the keys of a keyboard (but most often the backspace key, no judgement). Over the span of these novels, I’m now unhealthily-emotionally-attached to three different main characters and enough secondary characters to make my head spin.
Despite every rejection letter, I have not stopped. Despite every shout of doubt that rings in the back of my mind, I have held onto my stubborn ways and kept writing. Despite every person who has ever question why I went to college for Creative Writing. Despite every time someone asked me what I really wanted to be when I grew up. Despite every time I felt like I sinking into a hole in the ground (where no Hobbits lived and that is no hole I want to be a part of!) because my passion was worthless because my books would never get picked up, they would never sell, no one would ever actually like them because none of them would ever be good enough.
Despite it all, because of it all, I kept writing.
And now I claim that I’ve written five books. One more and then half a dozen novels have the claim of a young woman named Nicole Evans to them. And this one was so special to me, because it is about a regular bloke named Artemis Smith who is 67 years old. He’s a writer whose written 25 books and never been published, yet he’s never given up, either. And he’s stayed positive throughout it all, no matter what life has thrown his way or how deep he slips into depressive doubts. By the end of this book, he still hasn’t made it, but he’s getting closer. And he’s not giving up. He never will. I love him for it and I strive to emulate him (even if he is very much inspired by my own struggles and hopes and aspirations, so pulling some Inception shit right now).
So here’s to stubbornness and creativity. To smaller paychecks that equate to more writing time. To dedication and channeling the Muses. To the celebratory ice cream I’m allowing myself to buy before I get home and unashamedly eat most of it as I play Mass Effect until the sun comes up.
But most of all, here’s to every single person whose believed in me, encouraged me, inspired me and told me I could make it one day. I promise you I’m trying. And I promise that I’m loving it.