I finished the first draft about three minutes before nine this evening, having written the final paragraph three times—none of them being an obvious improvement over the one before. But it’s finished, and I zipped out with Joel to have a copy printed off (418 pages, she said, feeling strangely as though she was reciting a newborn’s length in inches—why DO people do that anyway? Does it matter?). And, of course, we got some of those lovely powdered sugar donuts that I adore.
Have been feeling v shaky about the quality of it (can any good thing come from historical fiction? Set in the Victorian era?? One doubts), but I did happen to open a Madeleine L’Engle novel at random this evening and read the immortal dialog: “Oh, hello. How are you?”
And, I thought to myself: self, old darling, perhaps you don’t suck any more than is common to man.
My father, currently on a George Eliot bender, wants to read the draft, a fact that can only contribute to the nerves. I don’t think he’s read anything of mine since… kind of ever.
And the revisions will need to come thick and fast.
Prayer and coffee appreciated.
