Liza had one New Year’s resolution – finish her novel in six months.
January went well; she picked it up where she’d left off eight months earlier; the halfway point. With roughly 30,000 words left to put on the page, she breezed through the first 8,000 before Groundhog Day – then the flu kicked in, Puffs and Penicillin replaced prose.
March brought friendly after-work parties that included an over consumption of brain-numbing green beer and the obligatory trip to her best friend’s baby shower, which only served to remind Liza that she was a little behind on just about everything.
April had her scrambling to gather receipts and spend countless hours and all her creativity on preparing her taxes.
By May she was becoming frantic and vowed to meet her self-imposed, tipsy New Year’s deadline—and nothing would get in her way.
She planted herself at her desk and wrote—and wrote—and wrote.
And she met her deadline—June 30th arrived, and she tapped her fingers to the keys that would type those ever-evasive words, “The End.”
She had her book. She’d met her deadline and loaded her book to an online site.
It wasn’t very good. There were inconsistencies in the story, flat characters, one-dimensional imagery. It was a rush job, and like a hurried trip to the salon, the results were ugly.
Don’t be Liza.
Take your time. Allow your creativity to work its magic. Readers will wait for something worth the read.
Liza’s mom insisted she loved her book and bragged to her friends that her daughter was a published author—but she never offered them a copy.
Liza found that odd.
Write, rewrite, repeat.