shit got real

Last month I read a selection from the novel in progress to an audience.

Understand: it was not my first time public speaking (much as I avoid it) or a large crowd (mostly friends/family of my critique group). Even so, those 4 minutes felt seismic.

Suddenly this “writing a book” thing became vividly real.

Somehow reading a scene of my own work in public threw obligation into my lap like a lead weight. Afterwards my subconscious screamed can I do it? Can I really do it?

Despite the week of shakes and self-doubt afterwards, I am still plugging away. I will finish this thing.

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