67,288

This past Friday, as all of my family was away celebrating Thanksgiving, and my husband was killing it on Black Friday raking in the dough, I was burroughed on my sofa typing up the last few breaths of my first novel. 112 pages. 67,288 words. One very impressed girl. [I impressed myself. Not an easy task.]

[Congratulatory kiss.]

[Ginger celebrating on my belly with the computer and novel behind.]

[The spaced out look of accomplishment.]

I still have a long way to go with it. There is loads of editing to be done. And then the daunting and somewhat ridiculous task of trying to get published. But, honestly, it isn't even about getting published. The sensation of having written a book, be it published or not, but having accomplished the act of writing a novel, is like none I have ever experienced. As a person, I am feeling slightly realized. Like I have actually done something with my life. Something I always wanted to do. Something I never really was sure I would do. And something that I intend to keep on doing until I am old and gray, have lost my vision, ability to speak [I could tell my stories to a transcriber!], or have simply lost my mind. But even then the stories would at least probably be interesting, sans mind and all.