Some of you have been following my progress for a few years and some of you have given up. Writing a novel is a long and taxing process, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone who hadn't said it, doggedly, and then written, doggishly, until they had something resembling a novel in front of them. I fancied myself a poet in college, then turned to flash fiction, then to short stories. One of the short stories begged to go on longer until it became a novella. Once I'd done that, there wasn't any hope for me. I wanted to set my imagination loose in the wide sandbox of a novel. That's how I tricked myself into writing a novel.
A month ago I quit my job "to finish the damn book" and have tried my best to make good on my intentions. Now I have a full draft which I paid too much money to print out, because I wanted to hold it in my hands and smell the paper and mark up the margins, and in case the solar flare wipes everything out, I'll still have something to hold onto (until the flood). After I'd printed it out I took the manuscript to a lake and walked around with it under my arms, then took it home and, following John Gardner's advice, tossed it into a drawer to ripen.
Yes, that mill photo is just there to obscure my physical address on the title page.
I've got it out now, and in the next week I'm going to make any final adjustments to the book before taking it to publishers and/or agents (any advice on this process would be welcome). I'm going to do some research on what it'd mean to disburse the first chapter to anyone interested; I'd rather people read the book than hold onto it, but I would also like to get this labor of love bound and inked.
I think we're about a month and a half from my final cut of the novel (before the publishers ask me for any further changes). Thanks for bearing with me, or if you forgot about me: hello again. I wrote this book and I can't wait for you to read it.
--jd