Whoa... I did it.

Here's a quick note of congratulations to me: well done.

If I'd been raised in a home that valued creative endeavors and constructive criticism of them, I'd probably not feel the need to celebrate my minor triumph.  But I wasn't.  So there.

On Friday, at 5:17 p.m., I finished the first draft of the beastly novel I've been frantically drafting since July.  It's a pus-eyed hydra with stank breath but it's finally contained, top to bottom.  I'm inclined to call it all sorts of foul names which only confirms the absolute imperative that I never have children.

I woke up on Saturday wondering, "now what?"  And then, this morning, I opened the document and started reading it.  I suppose I'll revise the pus out of it and then do what every wide-eyed dilettante with an internet connection and some time does: impose my writerly reiterative travails on my lovely blog readers.

First things first: I'm going to pretend for a moment that this festering monster requires some air before I attack it with my rusty machete.  I want a week at least to savor the infection I've created.