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The First Novel
You’ll never get to see my first novel. It’s there, a single hard copy written in an old, unused diary, sitting on a bookshelf in my study. However, whilst it served an essential purpose, it is not something that is fit for public consumption. I’m not heartless enough to inflict it on other people. In fact, I’ve not been back to it myself since I completed it, but I will always keep hold of it as a reminder of how I got to where I am now. How long it took me to write that first novel, I can’t recollect, but it was something like four months, as there are only so many words you can get down on paper in 40 minutes a day, five days a week. Even as I wrote, I knew it was poor stuff, but I was still happy with what I was doing, aware that each day that past brought me closer to my goal and nearer to the time when I could say I’d written a novel. And once I got to the end? I can’t really say that I was a different person, but I can unquestionably say that I was a different writer. Not only did I now know that I really could do it, but just as importantly, I knew what was needed to complete that journey. (Taken from my blog http://www.benwesterham.com/a-writers-life/).
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