Tanya Sweeney. Photo: Gerry Mooney
Well, I finally went and wrote a novel. It only took me a few months. Oh, and the best part of 20 years.
Regular readers to this column might recall how, earlier this year, I attempted to shame myself into finally finishing a book, by writing here about wanting to start a novel publicly. For some reason, something finally flipped in me not long after that. I got supremely tired of telling myself that I was probably a really great fiction writer, in theory. The agony of not having written something started to outweigh the agony it would take to write something.
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