I wrote my first novel during my senior year of high school. along side all the poetry I’d been writing, I couldn’t seem to let go of the precious words I typed into my laptop. I started on March 25th and had written 350 pages with about 130,000 words by the middle of November.
At the time, I was focusing on graduating high school, balancing a job, a sport, and then transitioning into college. Writing a novel was the last thing I should’ve been focused on but there I was: I found myself staying up late, pretending to take notes on my laptop when in reality, I was writing more of my plot. I couldn’t let focus on anything else. In a way, I put my life on hold for this novel, but at the same time I didn’t.
I think that’s how writers are maybe supposed to live when they’re writing a novel or working on a big piece: sacrifice everything for the words.
This weekend, Facebook reminded me of the many posts I’ve shared about my progress while writing it. I posted different page stamps with word counts and had continuous comments about how my friends and family couldn’t wait to read it. This continued to fuel my motivation for wanting to finish it.
I wrote the last pages and words in December of 2013, the same year. It was quite the Christmas present I’d given myself.
It’s now my senior year of college and I’ve only done one copy of revisions. I printed out the first copy and went through it, marked it all up with a red pen, made it all fancy, but have yet to transfer those changes into my laptop.
Revising has never been one of my strong suits. It’s more fun to write the story than fix the flaws within it.
I tried to make a goal to really work on revising and fixing the novel but haven’t been that successful because I’ve been focused on my last year of my college career and putting together a small chapbook for a contest.
I’m not ready to sacrifice everything again for this novel yet because I have too many other things to focus on. I can’t give it the love that it deserves.
And that’s not fair for myself or the novel.