As I approach the end of my second manuscript I’ve found myself reflecting on the enormity of writing a whole book. It’s not a small task. How have I managed it? I find myself asking.
Writing is an art of patience. You need the patience to commit tens of thousands of words to paper without always having a clear end-point in sight. You need the patience to edit and re-write a sentence three, four times, sometimes 5, 10, 20 times. You need the patience to do this with the thousands of sentences that make up your story. I’m not known as a man of great patience, how have I managed it?
I love writing, most mornings I wake up itching to write. My poor family find me away, lost in thought about a particular plot twist, piece of dialogue or descriptive passage when I’m meant to be building a tower with my son or talking over the dinner table. I guess without this in-built love, I couldn’t do it. So I’m thankful for it.
Please note that I don’t write this to blow my own trumpet, but the collective trumpets of everyone who’s written / is writing a whole book. Bravo and keep going.