I wrote a book. A work of fiction. While I have trouble calling it a novel, by the definition below, it really is one.

“a fictitious prose narrative of book length, typically representing character and action with some degree of realism.”

Somehow, I always think of a hovel as being something Stephen King would write. You know, 1368 words long, deeply involved, things you could never dream will happen spilling forth on each of those pages. 

My book is cute. I love it. I had it in my head for four years before I finally entered NaNoWriMo last year and actually put it on paper. 

It was exciting to win NaNo after giving it three false starts. I had such a sense of accomplishment. Then came the hard work. I went over and over it before finally having it edited. Now that I have it back, I realize the work isn’t done. It’s too short to submit as a novel and I need to add some words. 

But I’m excited. I may never write another novel but I’m glad I did this one. I’ve learned so much and the sense of accomplishment is like no other. 😀