I just wrote the last line of my novel. I’ve been working on it for the last year, at least, but this past week I decided, enough all ready, I want to be done with this! So I buckled down and wrote. Even if I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen, I wrote. And kept on writing, until I completed the arc I had previously envisioned.
So where’s the sense of elation? A writing buddy of mine was on cloud nine when she finished her book. There was no talking to her for a few days afterwards she was so elated. Me, I just feel a gritty sense of, thank god that’s over with! Now the real work can begin.
That’s right, the real work. Rewriting. Removing characters. Fixing terrible, terrible plot holes. Adding depth to characters. In other words, making the damn thing work. And, in my flurry to finish I’ve left out a few key scenes that I didn’t quite know how to work with, and instead put in a place holder. “Character A does X here. As a result, Y has to happen, and he has to feel Z.” Such short cuts rob me of the satisfaction of completion. I’m too aware of these inadequacies.
Still, it would be nice, just for a moment or two, to take some joy in the finishing, even if I have to force it on myself. Maybe I’ll go buy myself some ice cream.