I patted myself on the back yesterday, because, frankly, there was no one else to do it. When I write not to a deadline set by another, but to a self-imposed discipline that is its own reward, I am alone to raise the virtual glass and say, “done!”
I am referring to the first draft of my new novel for middle grades. Nothing is really “done” here, except that I have a story with beginning, middle and end. The ever-present doubts that threaten to creep in every single day while working on very first preliminary drafts (whether the shortest picture book texts, chapter books or novels) were kept at bay. I “brought it home.”
It’s a very good feeling.
For the next week I won’t even look at it, though I have already jotted down a few thoughts to consider when revising. In a week I will do an once-over revision. It is not ready for anyone else’s eyes yet, but it won’t be that long.
A first draft is also the time I don’t read any fiction. Just a habit I formed that works for me- I need to “clean out the voices,” if that makes sense. So I celebrated last night by starting to read a new book. The other narrative voices are not an issue for me when revising.
This is my way of communicating with you as to “where I am,” (how California.) and what I've been up to. I‘ll spend the morning having coffee with a longtime friend who has moved to the city. (Here this means San Francisco.) I have two other coffee dates this week with neglected friends. All this caffeine-, which I happen to think is perfectly fine BTW- and re-connection, makes me feel like I’m on vacation. Funny. The laundry is still there and I will have to get up at 6:00 AM everyday to drive DD. But my inner-world is different.
‘Nuff about me. Tell me about you.