What was it like to write my novel? I’ll tell you what it was like. It was like snowboarding for the first time without a sense of self preservation. After falling flat on my face immediately after getting off the ski lift I thought to myself, “What I really need to do is go FASTER! That’ll help.” Newton’s first law of motion, right? Right.
It totally worked too. Once I got moving I kept moving. Didn’t matter if I was standing on my board or ploughing the snow with my face, my movement (and my luck) continued generally downhill. Do you have any idea how fast you can go if you have no clue how to stop? Pretty damn fast, let me tell you. So fast in fact, that if, sorry, when you catch an edge you will hit the ground so hard that the fluid from your cold will fly out of your head like a snot demon.
As you lay face down in the snow, with the mucus monster glaring at you accusingly mere inches in front of your eyes, for I don’t know, 5 maybe 6 minutes, reflecting on your life choices, you’ll wonder if you can quickly evolve the ability to absorb oxygen through your pores because your lungs are getting fuck all.
Now, if you are like me, once your diaphragm settles down and you stop fantasizing about becoming an amphibian (they breathe through their skin) you will get up and do the same damn thing again. And again. By the time I reached the end I felt exhausted, bruised, and broken.
And accomplished. Every ache and pain was worth it, because at the end of the day I survived. I looked at the mountain and knew that I had won.
Yeah, writing my book was like that.
Thanks for reading,