I wrote a book. The magnitude of this statement is still not something my mind has wrapped itself around. Maybe it's because it's still too foreign of a concept.
I start a lot of things.
I rarely follow through. (Except for the pushing the baby out thing, because by that point, I really kinda didn't have a choice.) So when I say I wrote a book, I am also saying I could have not, just was easily.
I could have let my Muse run the show, claiming diva-hood and migraines. I could have decided that why yes, I much rather would have watched Castle, Fringe, Bones, Burn Notice, Ghost Hunters, and every other show that I have ignored for the past year while writing during the only time I actually have to myself. I could have slept because really, who needs more than four hours a night? For a year. With a toddler for an alarm clock. a lot more than I have been. I could have not been as pressed for time during the day to get my housework done because it wouldn't matter if I needed to play catch up on the laundry after Buttercup got into her little toddler bed. I could have read more for pleasure or enjoyed a movie night or two with the zillions of never seen DVD's I have sitting on my entertainment center. I could have concentrated too hard on the publishing stats and my chanced and just given up. I could have...I could have...I could have...
But I didn't.
I wrote a book.
I'm going to work my ass off to get it published.