As it turns out, writing a first novel is nothing like conceiving and bearing a child; rather, it is like bearing and giving birth to the same child multiple times. At this time last February, I had completed the first draft of my novel and it felt like a major accomplishment. This month, a year later, I am revising and polishing a vastly improved version of it which, among the successive iterations, comes closest to my initial vision.
Perhaps I could have located the events nearer. Perhaps I could have established a shorter timeline. Perhaps different decisions would have made it easier to write my début novel. But I haven’t and they didn’t.
The story chose its setting, the characters made their decisions, and I was there to bear witness. A challenge? Undoubtedly. Worth the trouble to me? Absolutely. I ask myself the question: what force has driven me all these years to embrace challenges? Perhaps it is the resulting journey and the knowledge that only I can live it and give it expression.
A Writer’s Life in NYC