After nearly eleven months of plotting, writing, and growing disgusted with myself, I finally finished the first draft of my novel, Paris of London. It was a great relief to write those last words, “Because she loved him, she sat down to write an account of his life, so that no one would ever forget that London street kid…”
If you read my book sometime in the future, and never find those words, it means my editor and I did a good job. Which brings me to the next step in this turbulent journey of writing a novel– editing. If that sounded flat, it’s not because I dread editing. Well, at least I didn’t dread it, until I sat down in front of my book a few days after it was finished, and saw so many mistakes it make me feel queasy. Maybe I should take my brother’s advice and take a month off. A month away from Paris…?
Don’t tell Paris, but I’m actually enjoying it. I miss him, but I do not miss that messy 592-page, 239,000-word draft. I’m spending the time doing school, writing a radio drama, writing poems (and a sonnet!), and reading Spilling Ink, a kids book about writing. That book makes me want to get to work on my novel again…
But my awesome editor is in the process of moving and I’m giving her a few weeks to settle in! That’s my excuse. Besides, it would be neat to wait until the exact 1-year mark (August 26) to start again at Chapter 1. Neat and orderly–I’m that kind of person. I just wish my book was more like me.
Read about the book I’m writing here.