I wrote my second [completed] novel in exactly 3 months. In June it was barely an idea, and in September it was a full-fledged book. I’ve had the characters for a long time and I know who they are. I love the story, I love the characters and I love how it turned out. What I don’t love is having to go back through and re-write. I’ve never liked doing things twice and it’s hard to convince myself it’s for the better. Logically I know I need to edit. Do I want to? No. Writing a book about cars and street racing when you hardly know the difference between a V8 and a I4 engine (after some extensive research I know what they are) is difficult. Regardless of the “you don’t even know how a car works” jests I get from family and friends, I still love the topic. I love everything about the book – which isn’t named because, well, I can write a novel, I just can’t name one. I’m not whining or complaining here. I know it’s worth it to write a novel and for it to be the best it can be. I don’t want to send something off into the world that’s incomplete. I just want to say that finishing the book was so easy for me, but editing (whatever that means) has been a pain. Some day I’ll publish the book and it’ll be on shelves and I’ll be so glad I put in the extra effort. However, when juggling classes, a social life, and the book, I’m not so grateful.