There are moments in life you imagine for so long that when they finally arrive, they feel almost impossible. For me, finishing the first draft of my first full manuscript was one of those moments.
I was 49 years old, staring at a screen that now held the words I’d spent my whole life saying I’d write “someday.” And suddenly, someday had a timestamp. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it was done. And that meant everything.
The Dream That Took Its Time
I’ve wanted to write a book for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t just about having my name on a spine or seeing my words in print: it was about proving to myself that I could take an idea from the first spark to the final sentence.
The trouble was, for most of my life, I didn’t know what I’d write about. That was my first and biggest stumbling block: a lack of ideas. I’d sit down with the determination to start something big, and then… nothing. The page stayed blank. I’d tell myself I just wasn’t ready yet, and I’d go back to the rhythm of my day job, quietly carrying that itch I couldn’t scratch.
Years passed that way. The desire to write was constant, but the direction never seemed to arrive.
The First Push Forward
About two years ago, I thought I’d finally cracked it. I dove into researching a nonfiction book…the kind that would require interviews, digging through archives, pulling together the threads of real events. It was challenging and rewarding, but slow. I was determined to see it through, even though the finish line seemed far away.
I spent nearly two years building that foundation. Every time I made progress, I told myself, This is it. This is the one. And I really hope it still will be someday. But then, out of nowhere, something happened that completely rewrote my writing path.
The Lightning Bolt
One evening, I picked up Stephen King’s On Writing. It wasn’t the first time I’d read a book about writing, but it was the first time one hit me in the gut like this. King’s approach was practical, honest, and almost deceptively simple. He made the act of writing feel less like an impossible art and more like an act of showing up, day after day, until the story was told.
By the time I closed the book, something had shifted. I wasn’t just thinking about writing anymore. I was itching to do it.
And then came the lightning bolt.
Out of nowhere, a fiction idea – a complete, fully charged, high-voltage story – slammed into me. It was as if someone had thrown open a window in a room I’d been sitting in for years, and fresh air came pouring in. I wasn’t looking for it. I didn’t have time for it. And yet, I couldn’t not write it.
Two Months, One Manuscript
I set the nonfiction project aside…just for a while, I told myself…and gave myself permission to follow this new current. The book was called Ephemeris. And from the very first day, it had a pull I couldn’t resist.
I wrote every chance I could. Mornings before work. Evenings when the house was quiet. Stolen half-hours between meetings. In about two months, I had the first draft in my hands.
Two months. After decades of talking about writing “someday,” after years of creeping progress on another project, here was a whole book. The speed wasn’t because I was rushing: it was because I couldn’t stop. The story wanted to be told, and I had finally learned to listen.
The Shock of Having Ideas
One of the strangest parts about finishing that first draft wasn’t just the manuscript itself. It was what happened in my head during and afterward.
For years, I’d told myself I wasn’t really a fiction writer because I never had any good ideas. And now? I have ten. At least. They’re stacked up in notebooks and voice memos, scraps of paper and late-night emails to myself. Characters, worlds, conflicts…all lined up, impatiently waiting their turn.
It’s like the act of finishing one unlocked a door I didn’t even know was there. I can’t explain it exactly, but I think there’s something about proving to yourself that you can finish that changes the way your creative brain works.
Why It Matters
Finishing a draft is not the same as finishing a book. I know that. There’s editing, rewriting, tightening, polishing…all the actual hard work that transforms a raw story into something ready for readers. But there’s nothing quite like the moment you type that last sentence of your first draft.
It’s the moment you cross from someone who wants to write a book to someone who has written one. That shift is permanent. It changes how you see yourself and what you believe you’re capable of.
For me, it also came with a deep sense of gratitude. I wasn’t 22 when I wrote my first manuscript. I wasn’t a prodigy who landed a debut book deal before turning 30. I was 49 years old, with a lifetime of lived experience feeding into every line. And I’m convinced that made it a better book.
Stephen King’s Gift
I keep coming back to On Writing. Not because it gave me a formula (it didn’t), but because it gave me permission. It reminded me that writing is a craft, not a miracle. It’s about showing up and doing the work, even when it’s not perfect, even when you don’t know exactly where you’re going.
That was the real gift: realizing that writing isn’t about waiting for the perfect idea to arrive fully formed. It’s about starting with what you have and trusting that the act of writing will lead you somewhere worth going.
Looking Ahead
Now, Ephemeris is moving through the next stages, and I’m already thinking about the books that will come after it. The nonfiction project I set aside? It’s still there, and I’ll come back to it. But I’m also looking at a horizon full of stories I didn’t know I had in me.
It’s exciting. It’s overwhelming. And it’s exactly where I’ve always wanted to be.
For anyone reading this who’s still in the “someday” phase…I promise, the finish line is worth chasing. It won’t look exactly the way you imagine it. It might take longer. It might take a lightning bolt from nowhere to get you moving. But the moment you cross it, everything changes.
A Final Thought
The first draft of your first manuscript isn’t the end of the road. It’s the beginning of a new one: one where you know you can make the trip, even if the terrain gets rough.
For me, it took 49 years to get here. And now that I’m standing at this mile marker, I can see more roads ahead than I ever thought possible.
That’s the real thrill: not just finishing, but knowing you’ve only just started.
