2012.
13 years old.
I wanted to write.
Or, I had been writing. I don't remember when I started; I guess it's always been something I've been drawn to. Which makes sense, since I've been waddling around with a book in my hand since the dawn of time (my time, at least).
But in 2012, I remember wanting to write something GOOD. Something people would want to read. Not a short story, but something meatier, with a more complex plot - with "twists and turns", as I'd described it to a friend at the time.
I wracked my brain, trying to grasp at any whisper of inspiration. And when my "aha" moment happened, I set out to write the story.
I worked on it for months, almost a year. But, you see, being so young, within those few months I quickly began to see how much my writing could be improved. Trust me, I wasn't being hard on myself - that initial (unfinished) draft was cute at best, an absolute disaster at worst. So I started rewriting it, keeping the general concept but adding more complexity to the plot and characters.
I was very close to finishing that draft, when I suddenly had a realisation. If I ever wanted my story to be published traditionally, there was a major change I needed to make. I'm not going to tell you what that change was (not yet, at least), but it was important. Luckily, it was relatively easy to do, so I got to working on it.
By this point it was around 2015, I think. A big year - the year of my O'Levels, the year I was vehemently insisting to anyone who suggested it that I would never ever date the man who's now my fiancé, and the year I learned that not backing up your computer files is a stupid stupid stupid thing to do.
I lost my almost-but-not-quite-finished manuscript.
I was distraught. Angry, at myself and at the universe for sending that virus to the family computer.
I was fed up. I'd been working on that manuscript for three years. I would have to start all over again, and I couldn't face it.
Two years passed with me refusing to start working on it from scratch. I was bored of the story by that point; it had grown old to my adolescent brain. It wasn't exciting me anymore.
Then, in 2018, I made it my mission to finally finish my - at this point 4th - draft. Of course, me being me, I procrastinated. It was only during my Erasmus+ experience that I finally got a surge of motivation to consistently work on it. I mean, I spent most of my days alone in a tiny room in Ipswich, so I didn't really have much else to do. I didn't end up finishing it in 2018, but I did finally get to write "the end" at the beginning of 2019.
I was overjoyed, extremely proud of myself for finally having done the thing. After a few rounds of edits, I started sending my manuscript to agents, but to no avail. I was about to give up all over again, when I heard of a relatively new local publisher that was accepting manuscript submissions in English. I sent it in, hoping for the best. I literally jumped for joy when I got the email saying they were interested in publishing my novel.
That was in 2021.
Now, in 2024, after procrastinating for over a year on doing the much-needed amendments my editor had suggested, the finish line feels so so close.
And I can't wait to share the rest of this journey with you!
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