The Life of My Story

I have finished the first draft of my very first novel. I am not sure I'll ever let anyone read it, and I'm certain it's not publishable since it's not a formula sci-fi or detective or romance or etc. It's got 72,000 words, give or take. Some of them are even good words, and in a few places they're even arranged in a quite readable manner. It may even have potential to be rewritten two or three times and make it into the "handwritten-rejection-note" category.

But I am just happy to have finished it. It started November 1, 2004, as part of "National Novel Writing Month." I did indeed get to 50,000 words within the month of November, but it took me more than two months to finish the remaining 20,000 words. I don't think the last 20,000 are any higher quality than the first 50,000, alas.

The important thing, though, is having done it. I just hope I don't turn out to be the William Hung of writing, a lovably sincere but wholly incompetent hack who exposes himself (or rather, exposes his lack of talent) to the entire world.

The Story of My Life

Seems like my whole life I've done some great things but come up just a little short of the prize. As a kid, I had one astronomical year on my soccer team, but another kid was just a little bit better that year. Any other year I'd have won the MVP, but this other kid got it. Every few years something like this happens to me, and it just happened again.

I used to scoff at people who say, "Second place is first loser," but this time that's what it feels like. The prize I just missed (for my company, sworn to secrecy until the award is announced by the awarding organization) gives tons of recognition to the winner with only a little differentiation between the near-misses and the also-rans.

I don't know who won; they won't announce it for a month. And I know they must be deserving. I'm told it was essentially a dead heat, but There Can Be Only One, and once again it wasn't I. The awards we will get are some small consolation, but it's still First Loser.