Well...it's finally done.
I finished writing my novel last Friday afternoon. Two years and 600 pages later, I now feel slightly less full of shit.
This, of course, is a huge relief, because when I start something, there's always a good chance I'm not actually going to finish it. So I did and now I'm reading it from start to finish for the first time and I recognize a huge difference in tone and tempo between the first and last chapter.
I mean, it makes sense. I literally wrote this book all over the place.
I first started writing it on a cliff in Mexico, which turned out to be the prologue. Then I wrote the opening two chapters when we were moving out of our party house in Orange. That summer, I wrote about eight chapters while goofing off in Seattle. I wrote four or five chapters while trying to figure out my life in Austin. Then I wrote ten chapters as a working stiff in Irvine. Finally, I took an indefinite leave of absence and moved onto other projects when I hit writer's block, but I came back this spring to finish the last few chapters in Los Angeles on my corporate lunch breaks.
Though I've been continually working on the book for two years (not consistently or constantly, however), I haven't really mentioned it on too many occasions. Sure, several of my close friends were aware that I was writing a book, but we never talked about it in great detail really (except for Chris, who is sort of my unpaid editor). And, sure, I discussed it with friends that have written or are writing books (Celeste, Non, Jason, Alex, etc) to compare experiences and encourage each other.
But, very earlier on, I felt the risk of becoming "the guy who's indefinitely writing a book" (just like the guy who has a great idea for a movie and will one day write the screenplay and the the guy who is always playing music but not making any). After enough times, someone is bound to say, "Hey, shouldn't you be done by now?" And, naturally, the writer would fly into a blind, murderous rage (even thought people should call you on your shit). So, now that it's done and I've told everyone, I've found myself in conversations about my book recently and it seems strange.
People want to read it, people want to know about it and people want to know what's next. My friends are very supportive, as this could all be one really crazy book of nonsense, like some epic saga about robot gigolos and the fembots who love them.
I've started at least five novels. Most of them didn't make it past the third chapter (though they may one day). Back then, I told people I was writing a book (oh, I was
so proud). These days, though, I feel like the reaction should be more "oh my god, finally" instead "hey, congrats, man."
Hmmm.
I don't really know what the point of all this was. It's mostly just to say that I've been lying to you all since I was 16. I've written
a lot over the past ten years. But I was in a high school classroom when I told my friends that I wanted to write books. I was in college when I told a friend that I just wanted to finish
a book. And it was only a year ago when I told someone that I just wanted to finish
this book.
Well, everyone, I'm telling you the truth now. I swear I'm a writer and I've got 600 pages to prove it.
Finally.
