The other day I finished the first draft on that second novel I had been writing for the past months. It is very interesting to see, how, when I finally reached the end, I didn’t feel like I accomplished anything.
A couple of weeks ago I finished writing the second (haha no, it’s still the first) draft of my first book, which I have named for now #angstyspaceopera, and it still feels weird despite the fact that I’m already deep in the process of drafting my second one (which doesn’t have a tag yet- I’m working on it though).
First and second drafts, they both took me a full year to write and I have to say, I’m thankful it’s finally done because I came this close to hating it. I started the first draft in June 2015 with absolutely no intention for the words I was vomiting on the paper to be anything other than what I had been writing all those years: self-indulgent scenes of my favorite tropes that I keep to myself and I revisit when I want to read something that I will, absolutely, like.