Until Now

If you were to spend 24 hours with me, chances are you would hear the squeal.

It's a strange squeal, an involuntary sounds which just erupts.  It's fairly high pitched and I guess if I had to try to write it out it would be a "hee" although sometimes it's an "ee" or event an "ek".

My hands jump off the keyboard as I make it, and I start shaking.  And if Tim happens to be anywhere near me at the time, it will usually be followed by these words "I can't believe I've nearly finished".

I still can't believe that I am almost finished my novel.

A novel is a strange beast.  It's been left alone for weeks and it's occupied every spare thought.  It's got me to smile when I thought I never would again, and it's made me feel depressed and stupid and inadequate.

It's so incredibly real to me, so precious, that it is like extracting a tooth to change a characters name, to get rid of a plot aspect that I created in my first months of writing it, or to cut out a passage that I know is badly written.  I have another word documents "The Librex cut" where I dump all those terrible bits.  I know they don't belong in my novel, but they are my written word and they deserve a place, even if it's just on my hard-drive.

It has totally dominated our holidays.  It sounds weird, but every trip I have taken with Tim in the last 5 years has involved discussions (and arguments!) about character relationships, suggestions of character names, how to solve some kind of plot inconsistency, and some pretty awesome suggestions from Tim as to how to make things better.

I have bulked up my already filled bag with a notebook and a pen, just in case I have an idea.  It doesn't happen as much as I thought I would, but I have those moments, where I pull out my notebook on the train, or on a walk, and just write, write, write as an idea takes shape.  So often I will look back at those inspired words and realise they are not very good, and need a great deal more thought and editing.  But every so often those words will be just right, straight from my head, to the notebook and then to the computer.  And those words, despite many, many edits, will remain.

I have spent way to much time when I should be writing just reading because it is my story and I love reliving it over and over.

It's been something to dream about, not just the novel, but the hope of someone reading it, of something enjoying it, of people meeting my characters and going on their journey's.  Of someone in the business saying- this just might work.

But it's never been nearly finished.  Until now.
"HHEEEEEEE"
BG