It's crazy to me how much progress I've made in the last couple of weeks. I was stuck around page 23 for months. I didn't know how I would ever get through that part, the dull beginning of setting things up. Somehow I did and after getting through the first couple days, I've zoomed through. It's amazing the feeling of knowing I'm going to finish, that the only thing preventing it from happening quickly is that annoying thing called a job and a need for money. Damn you, adulthood!
Writing this novel for me now is kind of like those early days of being in love. You can't sleep, or eat, or really think about anything else but that person and when you'll see them next. It's the same for me now, except instead of thinking of a hunky boy while I'm contacting Fedex about lost clothes (my job), I'm thinking about how excited I am to get to my lunch break to read over what I wrote the night before. Or planning what part I'll write that night.
Now I feel kind of creepy for sounding like I'm in love with a book. Hopefully you know what I mean, internet.
I know it's too early to think about the future, the what ifs of whether the book will sell or be successful. But I can't help picturing a future where my job is simply to write, where I can work every night from 11 pm to 4 am and not worry about sitting in a cubicle all day. I'm not looking for wealth or fame; I don't need to pen the novel that will become the obsession of teens everywhere (not that I'd turn the possibility down). I only need enough success to pay the bills.
Before that can happen, I am hoping to get a job with a publishing company soon, a job that would certainly open doors to getting to what would be my second choice of career: publishing YA novels. At least in that field it would be acceptable to always have books on the brain.
But hey, it's Sunday; the work week is creeping up. Why not allow myself to dream that maybe, just maybe, writing novels will get to be my thing?
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