On my weekend away up at Lake Ontario a few weeks ago, I sat down and read Penumbra for the first time since releasing it back in 2013. I had a little trepidation when I started reading that I would want to give up on ever writing anything ever again, but that didn’t happen. Instead, I was actively engaged in the story! (I also only noticed two tiny formatting errors and no typos, so that was exciting.)
It was strange, though, because I realized that the tale I wrote in Penumbra was an allegory for all of the inner work I would be doing for the next year and a half. No, I didn’t have evil rat-men coming after me, nor did I enlist the help of cockroaches or pigeons, but the journey of facing down my internal fears and expanding myself, the opportunity to unlock some of my hidden talents and powers as a human being, and even the feeling afterwards that my heroine felt. It was strange. Like I could have saved myself a lot of grief and struggle if I had just paid attention to the message I had been clearly writing to myself a year earlier.
The good thing, though, is that reading my old work has given me the confidence to move onto my novel in earnest. It will be slow going, but I will finish it eventually. And knowing that feels really good.