I was proud to write a long novel. I believe I got a good pace going, and I hope that I created a world that readers will be sad to leave. So that’s good, right? My next novel is likely to be equally long, unless I come to my senses.
My first misgivings about writing so much came while I was recording the (free) Audio version. If the book had been half as long, it would have taken months less to record.
Then there was the painstaking proofreading, to get the book really accurate and consistent. I made almost 400 edits to several proofs. I reproofed my changes to make sure they didn’t introduce new errors. And – I’m sure you’re way ahead of me by now – each of those proofreadings could have taken half the time, if the book was half as long.
Then the book was published! I ordered 25 copies so that I would have a few handy to sell, and more to give away for publicity purposes. The box came to my door: I couldn’t lift it. I slowly emptied its contents onto my piano.
Last night when I walked to my writers group meeting, I took a few copies along in case anyone wanted to buy one. Every step of the way, I wished the book had been half as long. Pages aren’t free! They have weight!