He said I couldn't do it even when I expressed I wanted to do it. But I did. Now I got shit on my two hands, shit from sweat, fire, tears, persistence, and lots of late night work. Shit that, if only for myself, I'm proud of.
My stance on overhyping on the Internet remains the same. It must be avoided. It opens a floodgate to overpromising and underdelivering, leading to damage on one's credibility and one goes kerflop in front of the public. It's switch-and-bait. I tell you about this five-star resort only for you to find out it's barely two-stars.
But let me just say this quick. The first draft of my novel is complete. Shit.
It's shit because that's what I always say about my first drafts, whether they be a short story, a poem, or an essay, they're all shit. For almost a year, having writing as my “unofficial” profession (I don't get paid, by the way), I learned how to write shit, to not be afraid of imperfection and jumbled pieces of ideas, because the goal of the first blank page siege is not the reorganization of the fortress but rather the capture of it. Get those related and unrelated thoughts on paper, then reorganize it into an orderly kingdom.