On Reaching another Milestone

After almost three years of working at my first novel, I reached the end yesterday morning. I felt strangely elated at having finally completed a long journey that began two and half years ago (Sept 19, 2005). It is only the first draft though, but I feel I have achieved something quite big. (It is really big, all of 400 pages.) I want to share some of my experiences writing that first book.

When I first began hesitantly I had no idea (and also, no hope) that I would one day actually finish it. I started out writing a few paragraphs every day for some months, and then I reached the stage when I was able to write one side of the page. By the time I reached the half way mark I was writing one page a day. Then I realized the story was growing and that there was a possibility that I would be able to complete what I had started. There were long gaps in between. The longest gap was a year when I went to the Andamans, ironically, with the intention of getting away from it all and focusing on the book. I didn’t touch it for a year after returning from the trip. Then one day I took it out and started again.

One page a day was the normal pace which sometimes rose to two pages a day. When I began to reward myself for reaching milestones of 50 pages the pace increased. I began to write two pages a day regularly. I have a full time job from 10 to late evening. I wrote in the morning after breakfast and before starting for office. I wrote before going to bed. The book was never far from the mind. For some time when I was working in an outfit along with cops in civvies doing some intense work the work got in the way. I was frustrated but found the writing actually helped me write better reports at work. I actually got rewards for writing good reports at office. I felt like Bernard Samson in Len Deighton’s books. When I got out of that department the pace increased. I wrote three pages a day on some days and this month I actually wrote five pages a day, for three days.

When I started I told no one fearing talking about the book would somehow freeze the story. Later, I told a few friends. As for family, only my son was interested in the book asking me a million questions about the story (which is autobiographical as all or most first books are), and getting excited as the pile of pages mounted on the table. After some time I felt I was writing the book for my son. I guess I completed for his sake. But for his interest I would have abandoned it long ago.

It is only the first draft written on paper with a fountain pen. I know there is a long way to go before I can even think of sending it to a publisher. Right now, I am not even thinking of publication. All I want to do it is to type it and revise until I am satisfied with it. That’s the general plan and it might take another year but I am not bothered because I know if I managed to complete writing it, I have it in me to see it to its logical end.