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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| I wrote a novel. I keep typing that sentence just to make sure it is still true. It is. I finished the first draft of my first novel, and when I read it, I did not cringe. I did not immediately start a mental list of everything wrong with it. I thought, “This is actually pretty good.” That alone feels like a minor miracle. Before the brain injury, I always wanted to be a writer. I talked about it for years. I had ideas, characters, notebooks, and exactly zero finished stories. Wanting was easy. Finishing was theoretical. This time was different. This time, I showed up. I wrote through confusion. I wrote through repetition. I wrote through days where my notes were more reliable than my memory. I did not quit. I did not wander off to start something new when it got hard. I stayed with one story long enough to give it a beginning, a middle, and an end. That matters. The novel is not perfect. It is not done done. But it exists. It has shape. It has momentum. It has characters who survived the journey with me. That is something I have never done before. I am proud of this. Full stop. Does everyone care? Probably not. But I do. And for the first time, that feels like enough. This draft proves I can finish something big, even with the brain I have now. Especially with the brain I have now. I wrote a novel. Then I made coffee, because apparently that is how I celebrate now. |
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