If I Do Say So Myself

This morning I got up early and read through the full draft of my novel, the one I completed last weekend when I was in Indiana. This is my longest book by far, at 52,000 words, some 270 pages in my nice, readable Courier font. It has the most complex and intricate plot. I think there may be some actual surprises in the story for the reader, things that the reader wasn't set up to expect. I think it deals with a serious and timely issue - the irrationality of rigid enforcement of zero tolerance policies in public schools - but without being a mere "problem novel."

In fact, I think it's pretty darned good.

But I have the tendency to like my own books. Sometimes I'll read one published long ago, so long ago that I have forgotten most of everything in it, and as I read, invariably I find myself struck by the uncanny way the author has of engaging with this particular reader. I'll come to a funny bit, and I'll chuckle: that author's sense of humor is so like mine! And I'll come to a sad bit, and I'll wipe tears from my eyes: that author sure knows how to touch the heart of a reader like me! And then I'll come upon the deep truth at the heart of the novel, now laid bare, and I'll swoon with satisfaction: it is SO true, SO deep, SO completely right!

With this novel, I hadn't yet forgotten the early chapters, but I still read them from enough distance that my eyes were fairly fresh. But also undeniably fond.

This is a pretty darned good book! If I do say so myself.