Thoughts on the Novel

Reading over my novel on paper, scribbling, adding, finessing, cutting out . . . carrying it around with me everywhere I go . . . seeing it here in the room, a real thing made of undeniable pages . . . crossing out that word, changing it to another . . . being this-close to turning it in . . . there must be a more concrete and concise way to describe this feeling.

Happiness?

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