On Finishing…Sort Of

“I think I finished my book”

My boyfriend looks at me like he’s trying to do complex math problems in his head. “What do you mean, you think?”

“Not the one I’m reading, the book I’m writing. I finished the first draft…I think.”

To some people, this doesn’t make much more sense than “thinking” I was done with reading a book. How can you not know for sure? Is the story done or not? But it’s not really that simple. Even Da Vinci himself said that “Art is never finished, only abandoned.” At some point, with every novel, painting, poem, sketch, song, you have to step back and say, “I’ve done everything I can.” The piece never lives up to your imagined ideal, but given your current capabilities, you’ve done the best you can and there’s nothing left to do.

That was the case with the novel I finished last night. Or rather, the draft I finished. I got to the last scene in my outline, and just sort of…stopped. It is by no means complete or good or even satisfying, the story arc sort of peters out rather than coming to a close. But to go on at this stage would be beating a dead horse instead of hitching up a new one.

All of this is to say that finishing my first draft was not nearly the confetti-raining, bells chiming, momentous occasion that I was hoping it would be. Instead, it feels a bit like stopping for the night on a cross-country road trip. Sure, you’re relieved to have that first leg of the journey over and done with but how many more days of driving lay ahead of you? How many revisions and rewrites will it take for this novel to actually be done enough for the world to see?

It’s going to take a few days for the reality to set in that this first draft is finished. That there are no more new pages to write, no deadline to hit. I’ve accomplished the first milestone towards my ultimate goal of publishing a novel, a milestone that many people never hit, and that I myself have only achieved a few times. Knowing the steps that lie ahead, knowing that I have never successfully finished the revision stage of the writing process makes me feel like I need to qualify the achievement: I finished a novel! Well, sort of. I finished the first draft, anyway. And it’s not very good, it’s a total mess really. I need to do so much editing and revising and…

But despite all the caveats, it is worth celebrating. I wrote a novel. It has a beginning, middle, and end. It has characters and story arcs and subplots. It’s a novel and it’s real, and it’s finished…for now.

This is 30

I wake up in the near dark to the sound of whimpering. Pitiful little whines and raspy barks that quickly turn into thumping tail wags when I stumble into the living room. At thirty, I am still not a morning person, but my puppy is.

When I sit down in front of his crate to open the door, he crawls into my lap, his wiggly little body nuzzling around for the perfect spot to settle while I put on his harness for the first walk of the day. My boyfriend shuffles into the room and takes the leash from me to bring the puppy outside while I make coffee. Our cat trails behind him, still not the biggest fan of the newest, hyper little addition to the family. And we are a family. No rings on our fingers or paperwork to bind us (except for a lease and puppy adoption papers) but a little family nonetheless.

Napping like a champ

I have been looking forward to my thirtieth birthday since somewhere around my twenty-eighth birthday. Not because I thought I’d suddenly have my shit together or because I was planning some big “dirty thirty” blowout party. No, I’ve been excited about this milestone because as silly as it may sound, I’m starting to finally feel like an adult.

My twenties, like a lot of other people I know, were like taking a decade-long struggle bus ride. Sure, sometimes the bus would make some cool pit stops and the view from the window was occasionally amazing, but whether things were good or bad, they were almost always hard. Personally, professionally, physically, emotionally…you name it. There was no momentum, every movement forward was accompanied by backward slides and it always seemed like I was about two days from a complete and utter collapse. Until about six months ago.

With only a few months left in my twenties, I started to get the feeling that maybe, despite many years of worrying, I could actually manage this whole life thing. Like…I could pay bills and eat real food, be good at my job and have a functional, loving relationship. Someone would even entrust me with a cat! When bad things happened (because bad things will always happen) I could rebound and find a way through it. I could act like a functioning human being in the world and not feel like a total fraud. I could even feel (gasp) capable.

That’s thirty to me. That’s the glorious aura of not-a-twenty-something that I’ve been looking forward to for more than a year. It’s that certain something I sensed from women older than me who had survived the twenties trenches and are now kicking ass. It’s an eyes-on-your-own-paper give-no-fucks sort of attitude that I never thought I could pull off because I give so many fucks about so many things. But those things are starting to narrow down to what I can actually care about without taxing my emotional or physical energy reserves. What are the Kardashians up to? No idea! Did you hear about Giraffe Watch? Is that still happening? Is it over? No idea! Ah, such luxury and freedom. I can just see myself in five years having no idea what this year’s Mannequin Challenge is or what reality star is doing what.

Y’all, thirty is going to be good.

When an Apple Meets a Peach

On January 2, 2016, I stood just inside my front door. Decked out in a brand new dress and knee high boots, I checked my freshly blown-out hair for the tenth time, all the while whining to my best friend on the phone that I did not want to go on this first date. What if we had nothing to talk about? What if he looked nothing like his profile picture? What if he was a serial killer, or worse…a Republican?!

On January 2, 2017, I woke up and rubbed my sleepy eyes as my boyfriend of exactly one year deposited our cat on my lap for morning cuddles.

For the world at large, 2016 was the Year of the Great Dumpster Fire: beloved celebrities dying, a clusterfuck of an election, global strife, and disasters both natural and manmade. For me, 2016 was the year that love caught me by surprise.

I have always been a romantic. I distinctly remember dancing around my kitchen to Boys II Men ballads when I was too young to understand what they meant. Jane Austen is one of my favorite authors and nothing makes me feel all warm and fuzzy more than a Disney Princess movie. Even when it wasn’t “cool” to be a hopeless romantic, I never stopped being a sap. I just coated it in a hard candy shell of sarcasm. But dating in the age of Tinder can make even the most dedicated romantic feel a bit cynical about her options. So when said best friend suggested I join a bunch of dating apps “for fun” I grumpily resisted. Besides, I wasn’t looking for a relationship right now. I needed to focus on my career and all that.

Despite my protests, I found myself on the phone with her, on my way to a Bumble date, voicing all my various doomsday dating concerns and making her promise that she would call me at precisely 8:30 pm with a fake emergency in case I needed an escape hatch. I’ve been less nervous for job interviews. Which is probably why I only remember that night in bits and pieces. His ridiculously bright blue eyes and endearing awkwardness as he admitted that I had no idea what to do with the wine list. The way he listened and asked questions so that the conversation never dropped. The weird mix of nervous butterflies and comfortable familiarity. My arm through his as we walked to another bar for after-dinner drinks. A first kiss full of electricity.

Still, I was skeptical. I’d dated for years in New York City. I’d gone through the cycle of promising first date, flirty texts, delicious kisses and the magician-level vanishing act. Whenever anyone asked how the date went and if I liked him, I shrugged and said it was good and yea I liked him, but I don’t know…we’ll see. He was sweet, cute, nice, but it’s not like I was in love or anything.

Now, looking back, it makes me laugh how I didn’t see it coming, and how everyone from my boss to my best friend did. How what finally got me out the door on that January evening last year were the words, “It’s just a date, it’s not like I have to marry him or anything.” I have no doubt, those words will be recounted at our inevitable wedding. If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

When I first moved to Atlanta, I had the idea for a blog I called From Apples to Peaches, documenting what I imagined would be the comical and adventurous transition from being a lifelong New Yorker to living in the South. It never went far, but I’ve held onto that name/idea ever since, loving the sound of it too much to let it go. Little did I know that it would be the theme of my romance: a girl from apple country falling in love with a true Georgia boy who, true to his sweet sentimental heart, presented me with apple and peach blossoms on our one year anniversary.


Refilling the Creative Well

“I’m feeling kind of creatively drained,” I admitted. It felt good to say it out loud, like a weight of expectation lifting from my shoulders. Even if that expectation was only put there by myself.

It’s been exactly a week since NaNoWriMo ended and I’ve written a grand total of maybe 1,000 words since then. Which is a bit of a problem since not only did I not win NaNo, I didn’t finish my manuscript. The last thing I want to do is lose momentum on a story I really want to complete and polish. But as much as I love this story, I had to admit that my creative well has been feeling a little parched.

I came back to work last Tuesday after spending a gloriously relaxing week with my family for Thanksgiving. Without TV and a high-speed internet connection, I focused on writing, reading, and spending time with people I love. Coming back to the office was jarring, especially once I was thrown into the trenches of new business pitching and strategy revamps. The end of the year in my work world is a dizzying pattern of high speed sprints interspersed with near-dead down time. And I had to admit that I’ve been struggling this week.

From the beginning, my manuscript was calling to me, begging me not to abandon it. I wanted to be home, writing. Or sneaking in writing on my lunch break. But the mental demands of work were too high. The weekend rolled around, bringing with it grey, rainy weather the likes Georgia hasn’t seen in months: perfect writing weather. Except that instead I raised my cliche book-nerd status to a whole new level by bringing home a kitty, who has a real name but is only ever referred to as Kitty in our house because as far as we’re concerned, she’s the only kitty in the whole world. The transformation from not-a-cat-person to obsessed pet parent has been swift and complete. I’m hoping this will soon lead to shooing kitty away from my keyboard as I attempt to write.


She always looks slightly judgey

All of this was on my mind when my boss asked me, after two weeks of us both traveling, how I was doing. I could have said that everything is fine, that we’re handling things but we’re busy and need to hire an additional person for my team ASAP. Which is all true. Instead, I told her that I just wasn’t feeling things right now and that I was even questioning how much I want to be doing this whole marketing thing. After the election, there are a lot of things that just don’t feel like they matter as much and writing jazzy copy to sell things on social media is not high on my list of adding meaning to the world. Surprisingly, she understood (or not so surprising if you know her). We talked and our conversation poured a bit of water into the well, enough to do the work that pays me.

I’m still working on reviving the energy to get back into my manuscript. I’ve set a doable word count goal for the month and decided that any kind of non-work writing counts: journaling, blogging, novel writing, world-building and so on. The beautiful thing that NaNoWriMo teaches you, even if you don’t win, is that little by little, things add up. If you sit down to write every day, or every other day and commit to a small goal it’s manageable. And soon the grooves of habit are dug and your little daily blocks add up to something that would have seemed to big and unwieldy at the beginning.

Little by little by little, the story gets written. Drop by drop, the well is filled.