I Have to Read My Own Novel
And I am dreading it
I have to read my own novel. And, I need to read it as if it’s not mine. As if I didn’t put years and years of revision into it, after setting it aside many times, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Day jobs. Night jobs. Grading ten million essays. Raising teenagers. My own stuff that needed to be dealt with. Burnout from being a counselor. Raising twentysomethings. (Yes, that’s a thing. Trust me.)
I wrote the first draft a very long time ago. I can’t even admit to how long ago. I was in graduate school. I’d stay up late into the wee hours of the morning writing my next chapter while my elementary school children were dreaming about recess and spelling tests.
I’d draw up a rough outline and then in the dark quiet of the night, the chapter would unfold.
I finally finished the first draft. I told my boyfriend at the time. His response? “I bought a new boat.” (He was a crew coach.) We didn’t last too long after that. A week, maybe. It had been coming, to be fair.
My novel grew out of my desire to finish a novel by Mary Wollstonecraft that she left unfinished when she died ten days after giving birth to her daughter (Mary Shelley). Her novel spoke to me, and I was adamant that it had to be finished.
