So, I wrote a novel.

Eventually. It didn't start out that way.

Twenty some years ago it was six pages of scrawled pen marks. Then I took a creative writing course in school and the story grew to a hundred pages on an ancient clickty clack typewriter. Barrel of liquid white out anyone?

I wrote sequels!

At this point I realized the first story needed work. I don't remember why I realized this exactly. Sanity slipped in for a second, most likely. I rewrote the whole thing and expanded it. It was the most awesomest novel ever.

I let someone read it.

They informed me that it wasn't the most awesomest novel ever.

I rewrote it again and decided to go crazy and switch the entire novel from the pov of the female main character to the male main character. This was a great move, as it turned out, but whole loads of work. I lost track of how many times I rewrote it to get the male pov firmly inserted and the female to take the back seat. She did not like that! Not one bit. She's never forgiven me for it, in fact. Oh, but I had fun exploring the new pov. He grew and flourished and made the story everything I wanted it to be. Ah, bliss.

Then I let some one read it.

They informed me that it most certainly wasn't bliss.

What? How could they not love my 385,000 word novel? How, I ask?

At this point I joined a critique group and saw the light. And the editing knife. It was shiny. And sharp.

Three more rewrites, minus 267,000 words, and a host of cut characters and their corresponding subplots later...

I wrote a novel.