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.