I finished writing my novel on Monday, March 31, 2014. After fifteen months I finally typed the words THE END.
It was more anticlimactic than I could have imagined. No joy, no sense of accomplishment, no relief.
I actually didn’t write THE END at first. I simply wrote all I could think to write and when I was empty I went to bed.
Unable to sleep, I thought getting up and writing THE END would settle something. Or stir something. But no.
Forty eight hours later, it’s my writing night and I don’t know what to do. Every word penned offends the paper. Poetry won’t flowetry. I was okay this morning but not now in this mourning. I had fallen out of love with the story, true, but now it’s gone and I’m lost in a wash of unanticipated grief.
Who will I be now?
I think I literally wrote my brains out.
There are no more words.