I've finally reached the end of the novel I've been writing for... oh boy... fifteen years?
105 pages, a little over forty thousand words. There's one chapter left to revise in the middle, some corrections here and there, but all in all, it should be finished soon.
This is the first novel I've completed. Before this, I started several others that never survived the test of dispassionate rereading after a few weeks' break. But this one did. No matter how much time passed, months, sometimes years, I've always been surprised to find it good. To want to continue it. And to be able to move forward.
There are pros and cons to taking so long to tell a story.
On the pros 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 of perspective as the narrative progresses.
On the cons side, there's the evolution of style. Through practice, I write better now than I did fifteen years ago. Yet, I didn't want to revise the beginning too much to preserve authenticity. I've lightened it up a bit, aired it out a bit, but I've respected the progression and turns of phrase as if they were written by someone else.
Next step? Get it read. Find a publisher. Write the next one a little faster.
