I stood by watching as the copy machine ate up my huge stack of paper and spitted it out to make an ever bigger, fluffier stack. It was weird catching glimpses of words, phrases here and there. I tried very hard not to read it while it was going, but every now and then I would pause and think, wait, did I really write that?
My labor for the last five years reduced in binary, black on white. This is where my characters have gone, where they now live. My fingers twitch to type a new bit of dialogue, to fix a a phrase or hell, I forgot to address that mini-plot, and does the scene where he talks to his father really work? Maybe if I wrote it like this instead… and my brain whirs off into a thousand options.
Then I remind myself. It’s done. At least for now. I need a break, space, it’s better for us this way. We were getting too close, our relationship too smothering. Maybe, you know, in a month or two when I’ve worked on other things, we can be friends again. It’s been fun, fast and exciting, but let’s take it slow next time.
My writing buddy says she always gets the family car vacation syndrome with her characters when she’s done. It’s something more intimate for me. Yes, I’m bloody sick of all of them. By the end I couldn’t even reread what I’d written for fear of developing nausea. But their chatter still echoes in my brain and I’m feeling lonely for their company. We’ll start a deeper, more mature phase in our relationship, but I miss the frenetic passion that used to rip through me in my eagerness to tell their stories.
In the meantime, I _am_ rather getting geeked about the rewriting. I’ve never worked on such a scale before. It’s intimidating, but I’m itching to delve back in there and discover those little treasures that I hope are in there and those horrors I know will be.