Member-only story
I Wrote a Book. Now What?
The art of writing a book is much more intense than the act of writing a book.
I dedicated three months to writing my first (and so far, only) complete novel at the beginning of the year. What I thought would be so damn difficult turned out to be exciting and fun and enthusiastic. I was consumed with thoughts of what to include in the next pages, what to hold back — to keep the readers on the edges of their seats — in the early pages, what to explore vividly, what to cut back. I was so enthralled in this project that I ended up writing my book in a mere six weeks. The planning part, including the outline, leading up to the weeks of actually beginning writing, took me just one month. I was so fucking excited, that I failed to prepare myself for what came next…
My dad is a phenomenal writer (the best writer I’ve read, other than Stephen King) and avid reader, so naturally, I asked him to edit my work. Kindly accepting, he took his delicate time to study and note and read my work. It included graphic scenes, some extracted directly from my own hard past (in which I came from an abusive marriage), so I was fretful of what he would think of his own daughter. Then I began wondering what others would think of me. Of what I dealt with. Of what I had endured for so long. Until I realized, nobody would ever have to know I was writing about myself. Nobody wonders whether or not…
