I finished my novel today, and I’m feeling a loss. This has been one of the bigger parts of my life for the last four months. All during that time I was eager to finish so I could move on to the next project. But today during my lunch-hour writing time I found it very, very hard to type “THE END”. I think this means I’m a writer. Or maybe that I’m too connected to my work to be a writer. I’m not sure which.
Of course the hard work is just beginning. It may be finished, but it’s in need of a serious renovation. In my headlong charge to the end I left a lot of rooms incomplete, and roof is held up by duct tape and 2x4s in some places. I may even need to knock down a wing or two and start over. The only question is “how soon will I start?”
I think I need some time away from it, as wierd as that will feel. My kids are insisting they want to read it, so perhaps I’ll read it to them. I don’t know. I never really planned past this point other than vague notions.