The Rising

I just finished my book. I named it The Rising. And I typed the last words a few minutes ago. It's a crazy feeling. 

I started it three and a half years ago - December of '08 or January of '09. I remember that because I started it after I got out of college. I came home, read this book that my brother had, and started writing. I still have those beginning hand-written pages. They're vastly different from it's current form, but some things remained as they were. 

It needs editing, I know. I'll have to read it through a few times, and I'm going to need help from people. But right now, I'm on a bit of a high. I wrote a book! I wrote a book. . . . It doesn't seem real. I've written stories - lots of stories. Star Wars stories, sci-fi stories, LotR rip-offs, knights and dragons - I've tried a lot of stuff. I even started getting good at finishing stories. But stories are not books. 

I wrote a book. It's not a NaNo Novel. It's big enough to be a REAL novel.

My family was a big help. Every one of them contributed, even if they didn't know it. Kate was the biggest help though. She didn't let me forget about it; she didn't let it get stale. She kept asking about it, kept wanting me to write more, kept wanting me to send it to her whenever I had a new word written.

I wrote a book. I don't feel like I should be able to say that.