I wrote a novel for my degree, and I’m very happy I didn’t submit that to a publisher. I sympathize with my professors who had to read it.

Eddings is poking fun at his own early ambitions and the gap between apprentice work and publishable craft. By admitting he wrote a novel as part of a degree but is relieved it never reached publishers, he frames early writing as necessary practice rather than evidence of immediate genius. The second sentence—sympathizing with professors who had to read it—adds self-deprecating humor while acknowledging the labor of mentorship and critique. The remark also implicitly encourages patience: even successful novelists often produce rough, forgettable work before finding their voice, and learning to revise, accept feedback, and mature stylistically is part of becoming professional.