Dementophobia is finished.
Obviously I have editing, revising, lengthening, etc. to do, but the first draft is done. The first step, the main chunk, the spotlight work, is done. I’m really not sure how I feel about this. I’ve only ever finished one book before this, and it’s not much to speak of. I still have the sequel for Dementophobia to write, so it’s not a ‘goodbye’ or anything, but Dement has been a part of me for over three years and I just finished penning half of it.
But I am confident in myself as a writer. Yesterday while I was on the airplane, I started reading The Idiot’s Guide to Writing a Novel. The woman in front of me saw the title of the book and asked if I was writing a book. I said yes. She said she had just finished writing her novel and gave me her card with her website and book on it. I still can’t really express how I felt a moment later once I was off the plane and actually thought about what had happened.
But authors are real people. They’re not multi-billionairs who sit around in the top floor of their mansions, smoking expensive cigars and talking to each other while watching the common folk down on the ground who read their books. Authors are people. They breath the same air we do and walk the same sidewalks we do and drive the same kind of cars we do and live in the same houses we do. For all you know, your next door neighbor might be an author.
And I’ve come to the point that I don’t think of authors as “them” but as “we” and “us”. You don’t have to be published to be an author. Finishing Dement, reading that book, and meeting that woman all combined to give me lots of writerly feels and I just felt… normal. My book recommended me to that lady and she approached me about it. And I just love that.
Because I would have done the same thing.