Frogs

I wrote my first novel almost two years ago during NaNoWriMo. The novel is titled "Kissing Frogs" and it's sitting on my desk, staring at me. There are some days when it croaks loudly at me and begs to be handled. Other days, it is content to just lay there in it's cool, dark hiding place.

I feel two things when I look at it: 1) proud of myself for FINALLY following through and writing a complete novel, and 2) a strange mix of anxiety, fear and sadness.

The first feeling probably makes sense to most people; the second one may not. The anxiety stems from the overwhelmingly daunting task of editing and revising. I know that there is a lot of correcting that needs to be done. Hell, I don't even have it broken down into chapters, that's how rough the draft is. Hemingway said that the first draft of anything is shit. If that's the case, mine is more like diarrhea. No, really, it's that bad and stinky.

My logical mind knows that it's a rough draft and that I shouldn't expect it to be perfect. I'm afraid that even after I've done some revising, it still won't be good enough for people outside of my special inner circle to read.

When I see "Frogs" sitting in front of me, I feel sad. It's my first novel (unless you count the one I wrote long-hand in a 200 page Mead notebook when I was a kid). It's special and I'm sentimentally attached. There may be other novels and stories in me but none will ever replace the feeling I had when I finished "Frogs." And I know that I will miss that feeling.

Maybe with some love, "Frogs" will magically turn into a gorgeous hunk of writing and we will live happily ever after in Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com. A girl can dream, can't she?

Smiling on the inside,

~Valeka