Whew. After all the endless rounds of editing, I have finished my book.
It’s a strange feeling, right after you’re done. It’s as though the bubble that you were once inside closes, and this thing floats off on its own, separate, complete. All this work cements itself, and becomes something else, something no longer pliable.
It’s right on time, too, seeing as how NaNoWriMo starts in just a few days, and there was no way I could do both. So I think I am going to take a few days (as strongly recommended to me by a wise, wise person) to rest, regroup, and get ready.
Even with this one done, or, at least, essentially done, even now, in the wake of tiredness the finishing leaves behind, I’m excited for my NaNoFiMo, for the challenge of dusting off the ghosts of manuscripts past and seeing what they hold. Maybe it’s a kind of writing-based amnesia, wanting to jump on the merry-go-round again while still dabbing my scrapes with the first-aid ointment. Maybe it’s some type of delusion.
But let’s face it. Most of us who write of fiction are deluded in some way.
Whatever it may be, I’m glad that completion is leading straight into creation. Because as difficult as it is shaping words to your will, the satisfaction when you’ve managed is worth it.