I did it. I have to keep reminding myself: it’s finally done. Nine years. Six cities. Three drafts. And one published book. It’s complete. I’m complete. My greatest effort is over.
Writing a book is hard, especially when you want it to achieve many goals. I wanted to capture a broad readership: my friends, my family, and people who I’ve never met. I wanted everyone from my parents to fiancé to teachers to lonely travelers to librarians to professors to students to everyone and anyone to find not just enjoyment, but true value in reading my story – the value of perspective and reflection, adding their own take to the moments of life we all encounter.
From the feedback so far, I think I have achieved my goal – a goal I sometimes thought was impossible. Even completing my story didn’t seem possible on so many days. The emotional tax of writing wore on me. There were days where I just stared at the screen for hours with nothing to show for it. There were days I wrote for hours and then threw away everything I’d written because it didn’t add anything to the story I was telling; I’d detracted into yet another unrelated tale. And there were days that I looked up and looked back, and I saw that I couldn’t look forward because the view ahead was so murky and depressing; I didn’t know where I was going.
But there were other days too. There were days where I stood up at my desk after hours of straight, zoned-in writing and actually spiked the piles of papers next to me because I was that pumped up – that thrillingly excited about the words I’d just strung together. Those moments brought memories of sporting achievements from my past – such an odd contrast to feel that euphoria from the stage to the dimly lit office where I worked through early mornings and late nights.
But now I’m passed those ups and downs. My book is published, my story is complete, and now it’s time to market it in every way imaginable.