I have finished the first draft of my first novel, and I’m fighting my exuberance. I know there’s lots of work left to do, and I still have weeks of work before my initial readers will see a copy. My wife will see a copy before others. By the end of this year, she might read this book three times. She’s an excellent reader who will pick up on the things I’m missing, point out where I’m boring the reader, and show me that I’m telling the story rather than helping the reader see it.
I have written more than 120,000 words, which is probably about 25-30,000 too many for what this story is. Off the top of my head, I recall the Stephen King book, “On Writing,” advises that revision takes the original and cuts back 10 percent. Mine will probably be closer to 25 percent when a couple rounds of revision are complete.
I’m happy to have gotten this far. Yet, I’m aware that this doesn’t mean my book will be bought by a publisher much less grace the shelves of Barnes & Noble, among the hundreds of other titles. This step has not accomplished anything beyond what I’ve described. But, damn, it feels good right now.
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