Just Keep Going

I'm learning that writing a book never really ends. When I started out about a year ago, determined to take my shot at writing a novel, I had the idea that, at some point, I would feel accomplished. Like I'd done something. Finished some wonderful story and could move on.

So far, that hasn't happened. 

My first (very naive) assumption was that I would feel this way after finishing the first draft. Yes, I knew intellectually that there would still be a lot of work, but the emotional centers of my brain insisted that I would feel done. 

I finished the first draft last November (thanks to some intense NaNoWriMo encouragement!) and instead of feeling accomplished, I felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with how far I had come. Overwhelmed with how much further I had to go. I felt like I'd spent ten months climbing a mountain, a mountain that was steeper and more dangerous than anything I'd ever tried, only to find out that there was a much taller mountain just behind it. One that I couldn't see while I climbed the one in front of me. 

I spent December in a haze of stunned lethargy. Really? I'd come this far and I wasn't even close to finishing? I would have to push harder and farther than I'd imagined and I felt like, maybe, I couldn't. Maybe I wasn't strong enough. Good enough. Brave enough. Maybe I just wasn't capable. 

But at some point I decided to go on. To take one more step. To pick up this burden, this book I'd worked so hard on, and carry it a bit further. 

And here I am, pushing towards the end of the second draft. And I know that when I do finish this draft, it isn't the end. It isn't even close. And I'm okay with that. 

And, maybe, just maybe, some day in the distant future when I finally hold a physical copy of my book. Maybe then, I will feel done.




image credit: burtn.deviantart.com