One of my favorite Spanish words is asombrado. I understand it to mean ‘amazing’ or ‘astonished.’ I can hear the word ‘somber’ inside of it, also ‘sobered.’ Struck by awe, a vibration in the chest like a heavy bell.
So, in the spirit of sharing joy, I have, after maybe a year or two of work, finished the first draft of my novel. There were no fireworks. No somersaults. I’d imagined typing an extraordinary and brilliant last sentence, then clapping my hands and dancing around the room. Music, lights, drinks, a strong possibility of karaoke. Instead, I was mostly stunned. Motionless. Asombrado.
It snuck up on me. While I was rereading the ending, I realized there was nothing more to say. The raw content was there, sitting in front of me, almost two hundred pages of work. The characters were complicated. The plot and the stakes were there. The prose was messy and sometimes lovely.
There was a part of me that doubted this would happen. That deemed the whole “writing a book” thing as a hobbyist’s dream. Now, printed out, I can hold the weight of it in my hands.
What comes next is revision and editing. What is that? I can see it in the distance. A conical Tolkien tower made of stone. Another journey, another battle. I’m supposed to figure out how to climb, how to exist in thin air, to feed myself, and fight off enemies (frustration, self-doubt, the news).
But really, how much different is this journey from life itself, with its surprises, ecstasies and bittersweetness?
And there will be things to look forward to; those brief indescribable moments of flow, when the words channel through, my body both starlight and somehow dust.
Bravo!
Bravo!