Guess What I Did?

I finished it!

Oh, wait, you have no idea what I'm talking about. Right.

For the last couple of years, in stolen moments here and there and for a few hours on most Thursday nights, I have been writing a...story. Ninety-thousand-one-hundred-sixty-two (90, 162) words later, it's finally done. I finished it tonight, at Borders (which is where I go on Thursday nights for a few hours of writing and discussion-group time).

Well, I finished the first draft anyway. Now for the fun - I have to fix some spacing issues and figure out where the chapter breaks go...if they go anywhere at all. I have no idea how to do that, so it's going to be interesting. I also need to indent all the conversations - I sort of forgot to do that until about halfway through, so now I need to go and fix those or my friend who's offered to throw herself on the grenade read it and help with editing might go crazy. I wouldn't want to deprive her son of his mother, so I better get cracking on that. I'm supposed to give her a copy on Monday, with hopes she will have it read and red-inked ASAP so I can fix it and hand it off to the next poor fool friend. These dear women are intelligent, well read, and truly kind-hearted, and I am hoping they will catch any glaring plot holes (I think there are one or two in there you could drive a bus through) and grammatical errors (of which I am certain there are many). They have offered to do this free of charge, an astonishing gift of time and effort that I am not so foolish as to turn down.

It's not a Great American Novel or anything. Heck, it may never be inflicted upon read by anyone but a few friends and family members who pissed me off I love. Still, I actually finished the dang thing...I think...and am proud of having done it. I am not a great finisher. I am a terrific starter, and a great sounding block for other's ideas, even offering assistance with plot, continuity, and editing when it's wanted. Finishing the projects I've started, though, is not one of my strong points (don't even ask me about the quilts, shirts, and baby clothes in my sewing room. I can't talk about it.). The funny thing is, when I set about writing a story, it wasn't this one. It was another one that is some three-hundred pages along and not even a third done. I started this project because I was stuck on that one. The dozen or so other balls I have in the air, writing wise, were because I was stuck on this one. That given, I never really believed I'd be done (ish).

I would have hooted, hollered, and generally carried on, but it was a public place. I also would have gone out for drinks, but everyone in the discussion group tonight needed to get home early. Oh, well. I guess these re-heated Boneless Shanghai Wings from Chile's will have to do. Cheers!