I am now going to be incredibly pretentious and compliment myself. I have shown a high form of literary bravery in the past few weeks, I think. To be sure, I post excerpts of my writing on this blog, but no one reads this blog, and they are but excerpts. Now, I have begun to spoon feed my entire first novel to a real live human being. I gave it to him out of guilt, I think, seeing as he was the only one of my friends who, after having known me for two years, still did not know that I had written a novel. That and the fact that he pestered me incessantly for a week. Oh, I should be made of sterner stuff.
He has read the prologue and entire first part; he currently has in his possession the first two chapters of part two. He says he likes it, that it is good, and that he doesn't mind Mark's being completely bipolar. I doubt he will maintain any of these once he finishes the book.
Yet all the same, despite my childish insecurities, it was a step. Every time I hand him a neatly stapled stack of crisp white novel the adrenaline pounds against my veins, and I feel so alive. It isn't about giving my writing to someone else--it's about holding it in my hand. Seeing the chunks of manuscript--of thought transmitted onto hundreds of sheets of paper, stacked and stapled, and knowing that those words are yours--my God, it is the most numinous feeling. I can only imagine what it must feel like to hold the first copy of a published book...
Note: The novel in the picture is not my novel. Mine is considerably shorter, yet beautiful all the same.
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