A great mystery in life.
A mear week ago, writing was not on my agenda. Why? Writing doesn’t work for me. There’s just something about me that writing won’t agree with. This is book writing I’m talking about, not blog writing. That’s usually more or less the same.
But, three days ago, the 11th, to be exact, writing worked. And now I’m almost half way through my first draft of my first book. (Well, first real book. I won’t count my embarassing little-kid attempts, aka “Meet Ann”, which subject I will drop now. Wow. I am not an artist. I should never try to illustrate kids books. Ever.)
So, it’s working. And I really hope writing this post won’t jinx it. Because I want it to work. Writing’s never really been fun before, and now it is. At the moment, anyway. As soon as I get to the rewrite draft 2 stage, it probably won’t be fun. But I like it at the moment.
I’m on a time race, however. My birthday is in just over a week. If I can finish the book while I’m still 13, I will turn 14 happy. If I can finish it during the school holidays, even better. I don’t know if it will all finish beautifully. But that’s the point of a first draft. To be… sloppy.
But, as I read on a blog recently, to have a fourth draft, you must have a first. And I’m excited about my nice, junky first.
Cause I’m one step closer to being an author!
FIVE MINUTES. STOP.