After a disgusting amount of time, we’re talking years here, my novel is at long last finished. I have written so much over the years and have always had the novel on the back burner, writing a bit here and a bit there and always having to shelve it, as other things have got in the way, writing and none writing projects.
Since I began writing I have wanted to write a novel. During the time this project has taken, I have written countless articles, numerous web-copy, scripts, plays and other things and all have their own worth, but the novel has always been out there ahead of me on the horizon.
I imagine I am far from alone in this, as so many other people have told me that it isn’t about the rewards of being a novelist, but about the creation of something unique.
I think the novel for many writers is like the finished canvas to a painter. Once finished, it stands alone and it is a part of the writer cast adrift in an uncertain sea.
Now comes the boring part, proofreading and editing the thing, oh joyous rapture. The book is the first part in a trilogy. I do have another book, unrelated which I am working on at the moment and a collection of short stories.