I’m done. I’m finished. I can’t quite believe it. After several years of writing, editing, re-writing and toiling over my first novel, it’s completed. I know there will be room for more edits, I feel as though I find one every time I review it. But, I have to put the pen down or rather fingers off the keys and allow others to toil and fret over it while I nervously chew my fingernails and wait for feedback. I figure I’ll take a moment to breathe before embarking on the next story path, so why not fill the time and start an author blog, because yes, that’s what I feel like I am officially now.
I’ve dreamt since I was a little girl of being a writer. No, of being more than just a writer, I’ve dreamt of being an author. Perhaps for many there is no difference between the two, they’re synonymous, but not to me. A writer is someone I’ve always been; the creative spirit has needed a channel to flow forth from within and writing was an escape for that river. I loved writing stories in elementary school and creating new worlds with talking animals. In my angsty pre-teen and teenage years I found how cathartic journaling could be, and I had my first visits from characters who wanted to tell me their secrets. I also fell in love with brooding, tortured, leading male characters, but that’s certainly a post for another time.
Towards the middle of high school, I found poetry. The non-rhyming, passionate and storytelling kind. I was so shocked at the way it broke all rules and was so powerful in a modern way. I became obsessed with conveying character points of view through pages and pages of poetry. Most of it is in the bin, never to be recovered. And then in college, full blown characters would come and sit and distract me in the margins of my college ruled notebooks. They’d whisper a simple phrase or show me a certain look and my imagination stuck to it like glue, clearly not interested in urban planning or constitutional law.
I entered the corporate world, ready to tackle anything and do my best and to succeed like all of my friends in their careers. Only, the characters in my brain kept multiplying and spinning new worlds. They raised a ruckus and it started to get a little crowded. So, I gave my most cherished characters life on paper. And thus began the book. I’d write a snippet here and a passage there, mostly after midnight when I had free writing time. I wrote when the mood stuck and when each character wanted to talk. Their timetable was never convenient, nor were the muses very kind some days and months, gifting me with dry spells and writers block. But the call of the author still urged me on. I read other books and just knew I could do it too; I could join the coveted author ranking. I was able to quit my job and in between focusing on domestic goddess status and wasting time on social media, I wrote a book. And even if this is my only book, which I doubt, I can still say I’m now an author. SH Burgess, Author. I’m not going to lie; it feels pretty damn good.
I handed over my manuscript to my critique partners last week, it’s been a long ass week. I am a curious person by nature, I love to be in the know, so it’s extremely hard for me not to be asking questions about how their reading progress is going. I’m also not the most patient person, waiting around for feedback may be my downfall. I’ve had people read sample passages, chapters or contest submissions before, but this is possibly the worst. It’s my first time, so I know I’ve got to cut myself some slack, but seriously, cue the self-loathing and anxiety meds.
SH Burgess 