I've reached the end of the novel I've been writing for... oh wow... fifteen years?
105 pages, a little over forty thousand words. There’s one chapter to revise in the middle, a few corrections to make here and there, but all in all, it should be finished soon.
This is the first novel I've ever finished. Before this, I started plenty that never survived the test of dispassionate rereading after a few months. But this one did. No matter how much time passed—months, often years—I was always surprised to find it still good. And to feel like continuing. And to be capable of doing so.
There are advantages and disadvantages to taking so much time to tell a story.
On the advantage side, there’s a "Boyhood" vibe (the Richard Linklater film shot over 12 years): the person who starts the book isn’t the same one who finishes it. You can feel a genuine transformation in perspective as the story progresses. And it’s no pretense: it’s my own.
On the downside, there’s the evolution of style: I write better now than I did fifteen years ago. However, I didn’t want to revise the beginning too much in order to preserve the original flow and energy. I lightened it a bit, made it more breathable, but I respected the progression and the turns of phrase as if they were written by someone else.
Next step? Get people to read it. Find a publisher. Write the next one a little faster.
Cover, epigraph, and first page (click to read - French only, sorry!):
UPDATE: It’s done! Revised, read, finalized! I’ve printed four copies that I’m starting to send to publishers. Each time, I include a small check for a few euros so they can return the manuscript and I can try elsewhere. If you know any others who would be happy to reject my novel, send me their contacts.
