Why I’m Not Sorry It Took 2 ½ Years to Finish My Memoir

Well, I finally finished writing my memoir about growing up at our family cabin. It took 2 ½ years, which is far longer than I anticipated, but that’s okay. The writing was on my mind for most of that time, and I found that almost every night as I was going to sleep or first thing in the morning as I awoke, I realized something else that I wanted to incorporate. Had I forced myself to finish according to a predetermined timeline, I would have missed out on all those extra memories that just kept flowing. I also had time to carefully consider the structure of the book. Because of this, my writing morphed from a simple collection of stories to something that I hope will have more universal appeal, bringing in emotions to which others may more readily identify.

A couple days ago, I emailed the completed manuscript to my primary reader—the friend who first encouraged me to create an outline with a deadline for each section. I sent the last chapter to him for his comments a year ago. The past 12 months, I have incorporated his suggestions and continued to combine, delete, embellish, rearrange, and generally edit my writing. Now I shall await the next comments of this good friend. Once I receive and incorporate his feedback, I will send the manuscript off to other friends and family members who have volunteered to read and comment. While all that is happening, I plan to research literary agents, hoping to find someone who will help me find an appropriate publisher. I realize finding a good publisher is a longshot, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.