Writing.

Grieving the completion of a novel.

Another night in the office, sitting in front of the laptop while the house sleeps.  I stare down at my 84,000 words and counting.  …and I want it so bad.

This is an insane thing to feel sad about!!!  I mean, the goal has always been to finish the novel.  Why am I not psyched? I’ve enjoyed every second of writing it.  Some of my fondest memories have been those magical nights of click-click-click, when the writing wouldn’t stop and the tops of my thighs burned from the heat radiating from the back of the laptop.  PM would turn into AM.  I would spend hours lost in a scene, feeling like the entire world had been blocked out and my characters were a second life no one knew I had.  A secret life, all my own.  I’d wake up in the morning, after a 2 hour attempt to sleep.  Pour my coffee.  Ship the kids off to school.  Cater to some “dire” PTO obligation.  All the while, thinking, “I wish it was midnight already, so I could write while the world sleeps.”

To a writer, a novel is never finished.  I’ve spent the last seven months dissecting every paragraph to know that’s a fact.  But in the technical aspect of things, my novel is just shy of complete.  And I’m ashamed to admit: it’s sad.  All this build-up to send it into a sea of people who might read one or two pages at most, then follow up with a shallow judgment on its future.  It’s not the rejection letters I visualize; its the publication.  The stabbing assumption that even if I do get published, the chances of it reaching its intended audience is still just a wishful thought.  A pipe dream.

But for now, I just focus on the close.  Perfect my query.  Scroll thru and doctor all those pesky adverbs.  Wait for friends to send back some pages.  Set aside all those “cuts” I made and store them in a electronic folder marked SOMETHING.

It’s sooooooooooooooo freakin’ cliché to say it but…it really does feel like a child I gave birth to, raised, groomed, gave it everything I had, and now I’m sending it off.  And I’ll be alone again.  I’ll pen other books and there will surely be more endless nights of click-click-click, but something tells me, nothing…NOTHING…will hold a comparison to the love I have for this book.  My first born.

My first novel.  My last true love.

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