The other day I let out a big sigh. After 13 months of constant writing and editing; after multiple revisions and three drafts; after transferring ideas from my creative mind into 98,000 words on my computer screen; and after many hours of wondering whether anything would ever come out of my efforts; I realized that I had actually and most definitely completed the manuscript of my next novel.
What a high! What a sense of accomplishment. What a proud moment, such an awesome moment.
And then, reality set in. What if what I had written was no good? What if the plot didn't make sense? What if the characters were unbelievable?
I couldn't let my achievement go to my head. From the pinnacle of my literary success, I nose-dived into uncertainty and self doubt. What would others think of my book?