After struggling with the blank page and accreting notes and scribbling an outline and hearing the first faint whisper of a voice and gathering pages like rooting truffles and building idea to event to story to plot and finally hammering out a few scenes and a few more until you can almost see a shape, almost sense the first whiff of possibly finishing; after junking it and starting over and junking it again and persevering and wondering why you didn’t go to law school; after writing anyway and being surprised when all of a sudden you’ve finished. You’ve got the first draft. Now what?
Evil thoughts inevitably crash through the elation. So what? Who cares? Is this nearly as good as I thought it was last night? Did I get ...