So, I finished the first draft of my first novel today. I can’t say it was my first book because I wrote that memoir about my year in Afghanistan. It was definitely my first novel though.

I’m surprised at how…not blown away I feel. I’ve known I was going to finish this one since I wrote the outline so long ago. I know I’ve got a lot of work to do on it still. Notes from writing group to implement, foreshadowing to insert, exposition to work in, characters to tweak and develop better, and so on…

So it’s not really marked by any real change in my life or circumstances or even prospects. That, may, all come later.

But this is the day I finished it. The same day my wife woke me in the morning to tell me the van had been stolen from our garage and then laughed like a loon when I believed her for just that barest of instants before I realized what day it was. Tying the sprayhead on the kitchen sink in the on position evened that particular score. Slapstick I know, but hey, one does what one can.

I hope it’s not a bad omen that today is that day.

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