I’m sure most, if not all, have gotten tired of reading the phrase/sentiment “I miss my husband” in almost every one of my posts since his passing. At least, I would be if I were on the other end. But I’m also a heartless dick. If you are not exhausted with it, continue on.

On Friday I finished editing my novel. THE novel I have been editing and honing into a polished gem ever since I completed my first draft on my husband’s birthday in 2009. For those of you who can’t do some quick math, that is nearly 15 years working on this bitch. I have started and stopped countless times, either because life got in the way or I got in my way. The only credit I can lend to these individual endeavors is that whenever I would pick it back up, with all the enthusiasm of a teen girl at her fave artists concert, I would start in a new place. The logic being that maybe working on another piece wouldn’t wear me out or overwhelm me as it had before. Ultimately I would give up all over again from the aforementioned reasons.

At one point around 2012-2014 I decided that I was going to give up on being a writer. After each failure it wore away at my self-esteem to the point that this remained the only logical step. In addition it was just destroying my self-worth. Because I wasn’t hitting this high bar I set for myself, I thought that I was less than trash. To stop it, I gave up on that dream. I couldn’t get my shit together. Every time I tried, I failed.

Yet time does wonderful things for my ADHD brain. I tend to forget. Granted, I didn’t forget that I had given up on my desire to be a published author, I just decided that if I were to write it would be for me. To have fun! Which I did. I would enter the NYC Midnight contests for short stories or their flash fiction challenges. These little exercises tested my abilities and showed me that I may not be “THE BEST” I was still good. Published good? Maybe not. But I still had the talent.

For whatever reason I returned to my work in progress (WIP) a few years ago, right around when Charlie was diagnosed. I don’t remember the reason. All I know is that while on a road trip with my polycule I forced them to listen to my WIP. As my bf and I took turns reading it, I was astounded how much of it was already complete. Had I really done that much, I kept asking myself. Clearly I had. It was all there in black and white. Just a few short minutes before we got home I finished reading it to them. I felt this sense of pride. It was good. There were still inconsistencies and a couple chapters that needed a lot of work, but overall it was nearly there. I could see the finish line, however fuzzy it may have been.

When we finally got home, my husband said the one thing that, out of all of our wonderful memories of us together, this one shined the brightest. My husband looked up at me and said “Your story is really good, dear.” It came from nowhere, unprompted, and nearly knocked me off my feet. I said “Thank you” not sure if he was being nice for nice sake (he was DYING afterall…) and he reaffirmed “I mean that. You need to finish it.”

On July 12th, 2024 (12/7 the reverse of when I finished my first draft on 7/12) I finally finished editing my manuscript. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I was elated and in disbelief simultaneously. I have dedicated so much of my identity into this ONE story that it was weird that it no longer existed in it’s original form. Immediately I wanted to call and tell my husband. Then… it all set in. Instead I told my BF and then my brother-husband. They were proud of me, but it didn’t fill the void I craved. So, I shared it on all my socials to lackluster response. My own high expectations ruining it of course.

To “celebrate” my achievement, I decided to leave work early and pick up my pre-orders from the Star Wars Unlimited TCG. On my way… I hit my husbands speed-dial on my car and called him. His familiar voice answered and I immediately cried. The line beeped and I barely got out “Hey punkin, I finished editing my book.” I was a mess the entire way to the store. Thank Taylor that it’s so hot, at least that gave some excuse to why my face was wet and red.

Now, I am left with the next step: writing a query letter. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

At family dinner on Sunday, I told my in-laws and they asked what was next. I told them the auto response (as shown above) and then told them my dream scenario. I said, that if I did magically get it published I would want, more than anything, a blurb on it with my husbands quote. “It’s really good, dear.”