Last week, I completed writing and editing my first novel. It think it’s important to mention the editing part because most novels are not really done until they’ve been edited several times over.
The moment I edited that last sentence and put a period on the end of the book, I felt… nothing. No sigh of relief or fanfare or any sort. I was just … done. Shortly after talking to a colleague of mine who has worked in the publishing industry for years in different capacities, I came to the stark realization that I needed an agent. Suddenly, I felt… relief and fanfare. It wasn’t over yet. I could spend a little bit more time with my creation.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the victory of completing a colossal task or crossing that marathon finish line BUT there is something beautiful about being incomplete sometimes.
No, really. Think about it. When you were a kid and you were building something, it was exciting and adventurous. Then you shared your creation with your parent, teacher, and friends and then… that was it. It was complete. Over. Kaput. Sure, you could put your creation on display for all to behold but the adventure was done.
I also think about how I’m a work in progress. It’s easier to accept my flaws and inconsistencies knowing that I’m incomplete and that God is still working on me.
So my novel is incomplete. I have to find an agent that likes it enough to represent it to a publisher who’ll print it and then has to convince the reading public that they want to buy and read it. It’s not all about getting to the destination. It’s about enjoying the journey.