I. Finished. My. Novel.
After many trips back to the drawing board, I have come to a place where I’m just moving around commas. The characters aren’t waking me up with more information anymore. New plot points aren’t bursting into my shower. The book is…done.
It feels weird to say that.
Now, I know it isn’t perfect. Only that at this point, I think I’ve taken it as far as I can go on my own.
It’s a strange feeling. So many months of work. I feel sort of adrift. Like when I finish reading a really great book and experience a day or two of loss, missing that world, those people. (Am I the only one?)
A great big Now What hangs overhead.
I know the answer. But I feel cautious, protective. I’m the only person who has seen the whole thing. The next step, I know, is to get other eyeballs on it. Push it from the nest.
I wrote a novel.
Let’s see if it’s ready to fly.