I’ve just finished the first draft of a novel I started writing twenty years ago, when I took off a year after college to write. Shortly after writing the first three scenes, I realized I didn’t know enough about life to write the book these characters deserved, and I put it aside to focus on other projects. Many years later, I picked it up again, got halfway through, and then got completely derailed by the intensity of applying to and studying in rabbinical school. This summer I tore it down to its component parts, took the pieces that were essential to its heart, and started over from scratch. And now, finally, I have something with a beginning, middle, and end.

Some elements have remained essential. It’s always been a story of a young person grappling with responsibility for the first time. It’s always been a disgruntled postal worker and a teen mom saving the universe. But when I started writing, I had no concept of privilege, or institutional racism. Understanding how much those concepts were baked into the universe I’d created, and having my character realize they’re in the wrong, has been essential to the story this time around. Which means it’s going to take a few drafts to make sure I’m not doing something awful or exploitative at someone else’s expense.

Definitely not done yet. But the milestone still feels good.