As 2014 draws to an end, I reflect – with slight panic – it’s been well over a year since I started my novel.
It’s taken longer than I thought it would. Even though I’m well aware some novels take many years to complete, I thought that mine would be be different. It sounded so simple at the start. And I was hardly J.K. Rowling.
But nevertheless, here I am: 69,020 words, 241 pages and 476 days later.
I’m deep in part four of a five part story and I can’t deny, I’m very proud of what I’ve accomplished so far. You see, for most of the 476 days, I’ve had barely enough time to share a sentence with my partner, let alone write a paragraph. My girls are demanding, loud and crazy. Of course, they’re also my light, my life, my heart.
But there are times, mostly unexpected, that I’ve managed to snatch a few hours and write like a demon. These times don’t come when you plan them, but always when you need them. When I can truly be me – and immerse myself in this world of mystery I’ve created – I relish it.
And so I guess, as I look to the year ahead, I hope to finish what I’ve started and reach the end of my story, which has lived within for what seems like so long: