Well. Yesterday I finished the first full draft of my book. And by full I mean like 160 pages, which technically isn't a book as much as a novella. But I'm not done with it. I'm putting it "a drawer" or just hiding it in a folder on my desktop for six weeks (via Steven King's advice) then I'm going to pull it back out and fix it.
And by fix it I mean expand it and make it so it doesn't suck anymore.
Not that the whole thing sucks, if it did I don't know why I would have kept working on it. But I am aware there are parts that need complete or partial makeovers.
It feels weird. I can't believe it's true. I don't believe it's true and maybe that's why I'm not excited about it. Because it's not really done.
Though I am excited to work on other things for awhile. To write some weird shit that doesn't make any sense, that doesn't follow a plot or a linear line, stuff that may not even be considered sentences.
I think I'm going to write a chapbook full of that sort of stuff, because I can. And I might as well.
Onward and upward and forward we shall go.
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