Writing a book or short stories is a lonely business. Sure, we have our groups and beta readers, but the act itself takes place in quiet rooms away from distractions. Creating the story usually isn’t from a discussion or a team effort. It comes more from a small, quirky idea that loops round and round in our heads, growing with every lap until we sit down to let it out.
Few non-writing people understand this process. To them, it doesn’t look difficult. “Research? What research? Just make stuff up. No one will care.” Who cares if the writer gets interrupted? “Don’t worry, that idea will come back to you.” Nope. It died, disappearing into the fog of nothingness like all other ignored ideas.
When I finished my first draft of Independence Day Plague (first book), others around me expected to buy it within weeks. They didn’t understand the months of critical reading and editing or the time, often years, needed land an editor or agent. They don’t know that the production is never that easy. So, we writers have only a few milestones in this process that definitely deserve celebration.
One of these rare moments happened to me last week. I finished the first draft of Riding the Comet, an asteroid-based novel about a teenage girl trying to make her own life choices in a male-dominated mining colony. Typing those last perfect lines felt delightful. The elation of having completed the novel lasted all day long.
Because it meant I was a true author. I had undergone six months and 330 pages of text. The story absolutely itched, clawed and tore its way out of me. Sometimes it flowed like ice water down a mountain stream. Other times I felt lost in all the technical information and ready to give up.
Many people say they “could write a book if I wanted to,” but they don’t. They’re fooling themselves because they don’t have the discipline. Others might write snippets and ideas but never complete them. A true author finishes the manuscript no matter what. They then polish it up to perfection because it’s a vocation or calling, not a job they must do. The joy of finishing a manuscript elevates that person above all the naysayers, hobbyists, and dabblers. It allows them to enter the rarified air of authorship.
That alone is a reason to celebrate.