The first draft of Prodigal is in the can, folks.
You have no idea what that feels like. It’s equal parts elation and letdown. For a year I’ve done little else than tell people I’m writing a novel. When I woke up this morning, that was no longer true. The book has been my obsession, always nagging and nibbling at the waking edges of my consciousness even when I wasn’t working on it.
I just … I don’t know what to do with myself. For the first time in awhile, I’m at loose ends — at least for the next six weeks. That’s how long I’m going to try to leave the novel alone until I take it out to do a second draft. In the meantime, I’m going to send the novel to a few trusted readers, who are going to attempt to keep me from making a public disgrace.
The finished first draft is 410 pages, 92,000 words, 57 chapters and an epilogue. I think the epilogue is unnecessary, but we’ll see what the readers say.
Next step is printing a hard copy and, well, copying it. Still can’t believe I’m done. I’ve been living with this novel for so long that I’m missing it already. I’m going to take the next week off from all writing. But by next week, I expect to start on a new novel. Writing these things seems to be addictive.