I finished writing a book.
And I’m still recovering.
It took about three days of solid writing to get it done. That final push is necessary for me because I get caught up and excited, and really become quite useless at life in general because the Muse is riding on me to get it done. So it moves faster and faster, and then ends in a spectacular explosion of grammatically questionable paragraphs and coffee and a great deal of nonsensical babbling at my husband and cat.
But it gets done.
Now I have a sweet little 70k draft to work on for a few weeks. The hard part is that I was so very, very excited about it, that I desperately want someone to read it and tell me that they’re excited, too. But I know that’s a bad idea. Because while I was writing, I couldn’t look back. Couldn’t revise. Couldn’t edit. The result is a little bit, um, riddled with holes, and errors, and some inconsistencies.
Therefore, this is a lament at how unfair it is that I have to sit on it until it’s decent for other people’s eyes. And the past two days my brain has been a bit like a deflated tire, so no chance to do any editing.
Ah … I shall pine away in misery … Weep for me, o cruel world.