THE END

 I had just written the last words of my first book, as I tapped the save button anxiously. It was a moment of deep awareness. I suddenly became aware of the elephant in the room, my book. It had been written, its presence could be felt, it was somewhere seated in my computer, it was finally here waiting to be read. I suddenly became aware I was going to be an author soon. I did it, I had finally finished my first book. I became aware of all the pain and struggles I breathed into my book. It was a sense of awakening, awakening to so many things, awakening to my thoughts and ideas seated inside the pages of my book. Reflection washed all over me. I felt like something that has been on my chest for years had finally been lifted. I experienced several mixed feelings at the same time. At first, the disbelief, disbelief that I had finally poured my heart and soul into 60,000 beautiful words of a book, disbelief that someone will be able to view the insides of my mind through my words. 

As I sat at my rooftop, with my favourite mug of coffee and my legs stretched out I could see the next six months of my life stretched out like cards before me. All the book publishing milestones smashed and all the happiness that came afterwards or so I thought. It was a bit eerie, somewhere in my head a voice continually whispered:” your thoughts don’t matter, no one wants to read your flimsy excuse of a book”. But somewhere hidden out of sight there was a ray of hope from the universe, I could sense it from deep within my core. My potential audience was out there waiting to buy my book, read my words and to be part of my journey and that was exciting.

It’s been three weeks since I finished my book, I wanted my book to breathe a little and to give myself some mental shift before the editing process began. Sometimes I was as cool as a cucumber and other times my mind was a burning volcano working nonstop, pulling different wheels at the same time.

Those 60,000 words contained my deepest thoughts and fears that tried to choke me over the years. It was a school journal initially, I used it as an outlet for my thoughts, aspirations and challenges but as time went by I realize that some of those challenges I ticked off as accomplished could also help someone out there with similar struggles, so I began to write and as I wrote each sentence every day, it got harder to sit and bleed out words from within. It took me seven years to get to the point where I felt a sense of satisfaction with my book. Every day came with new ideas popping in, bouncing from pillar to post, knowing I wanted to give my readers value through my message, I had to filter the fluffy ideas out.

At some point, I had lost all hopes of ever completing my book. I had become depressed over the current issues happening in my life at that time. I was like a brick wall, I had no one to turn to, after feeling sorry for myself for several weeks, I immediately turned to writing.

I can remember that day vividly like it was yesterday, I wrote none stop for 3 hours before I broke down in tears at my sturdy table, after all the crying I set to write again but no words came, I stared at my old MacBook resting on my table like my eyes could burn holes into them that will fill up my manuscript with words but I was faced with an empty page on my screen once again. Those 3 hours gave me an eye-opener to many great ideas afterwards. In those 3 hours, I mentally poked my heart, my head and my flesh for words to gratify my soul of its emptiness. Writing was an outlet to pour my heart out in ink and it's betrayal stank like a rotten egg. I was left with an empty heart and an empty page.

In those times procrastination was closer to me than a lover, I barely wrote a word in 3 months, sitting down to write was the hardest part of writing for me. Some days I would write for 5 hours none stop and I would feel like a King afterwards while some days I was faced with no words to call my own. But one thing I did not give up on was my message. The message I wanted to share with someone, anyone who would care to listen to my story. I was certain I had a message and my message had an audience, that was what kept me going even during cold dark nights when I finally got a glimpse of inspiration to write.

On such cold nights, all I wanted to do was hug my soft hand-knitted pillow and sleep into the night, but the words I seek would come lurking and searching for my manuscript to arrange itself amongst its peers within. On such occasions even with heavy eyelids, I would sit up and write away till bliss embodied me. I thank the heavens for such days because they were rare and rare was beautiful.

My editing phase would begin the following week, the flow of events this past week have left me feeling overwhelmed and elated at the same time, I wanted to go into my writing space with fresh eyes to skim the surface of my book before my editor took a look at my book. It was one thing to write a book and another to share it. The thought of another pair of eyes going through my book was a little bit dreadful, I knew constructive criticism was good but my heart could not stop beating at the dread that was not afar of.

I was very possessive of my draft and my thoughts were all over the place with fright. Even with the fear and my wandering thoughts and everything that was to come, one thing that was certain, I had written a book, a book to share my message, a book to call my own.