4968 hours later, I finally finished my novel. That’s 207 days, or 29 weeks. I say finished, I mean, I finished the third draft before I was 40 (3 May). I hit my own deadline five weeks early – cool!
It’s been quite an interesting journey. In 29 weeks I’ve hardly seen or spoken to anyone. But I feel it was worth it. I’m easily distracted you see. If I was ever going to write a novel, it was here in the middle of nowhere without any disco bars or karaoke.
I’ve been so far away from them that it feels like they may never have existed in the first place. Which is a good thing of course, because like most people I hate karaoke, and I used it purely as an example of citylife as I couldn’t think of anything else, because I’ve been away so long – or so it feels. You get the point anyway.
What next? I’m giving the novel a break – holiday to the Pyrenees and Lyon (citylife) – then I’ll come back to rewrite this bloated tiger of a book. Tighten it up with a rusty spanner, slice it up with a pair of blunt scissors, knead it into shape with the skill of a master baker.
By that time, I’ll be forty. So anything could happen…