My novel is at 84059 words. I keep thinking, hoping, it will be “finished” at least in some rough form before we go to Florida. Life and work keep getting in the way. And dreams of the sunshine down there. (sorry Minnesotans). Why am I even doing this? Did I always want to be a writer?
I found evidence that I did in a folder marked Mary C., first grade.
I’m not sure the writing has improved that much. Sounds like I was also practicing to be a meteorologist. In Florida. A “sometimes hot” meteorologist!