Unexpurgated Claptrap

(Okay, maybe a little expurgating happened before I actually posted. But not much!)

Do marathon runners miss running? I was sitting here thinking how it felt to finally finish Lukas and Alan yesterday, and trying to describe the “omg, what?” feeling, the realization that I’ve stopped typing for a reason, and no, I don’t need to get back to work.

Last night I finished and I didn’t tell anyone at first. My awesome supportive roommate was right here and I didn’t tell her. My less-supportive-but-she-tries kid was here too, and I didn’t say anything. I wandered outside. Wandered back in and stood in the kitchen alone, feeling the feels.

I’m familiar with the let-down of finishing a novel. I ought to be! This time–maybe because the story has been kicking my butt–this one was more intense. It’s akin to losing a loved one (though please note, AKIN not EQUAL TO and I’d much prefer to finish a novel than lose a loved one ANY DAY KTHX)

Yeah, I don’t even know; I’m babbling. I know there’s denial. “I’m done? No, I’m not. That’s not where I meant to end. Although it is a BETTER place to end…but if I end there I am done and I can’t be done…”

There’s bargaining. “I’m not done, I have to fix that one thing. Oh, and look, there’s that, I should fix that.”

Definitely there’s depression. Last night I stood in the kitchen and stared at the ceiling and tried to remember what people who are not writing books DO. (I was standing with my back to a bunch of dirty dishes, but SHHHH. If you ignore them they DO NOT EXIST.)

Anger–well, I guess my feeling of “oh hell, if I’m done I have to do the damn dishes” would count?

Acceptance… well, I guess? Maybe? Eventually? Once I dive into something else. >_>

Perhaps it is not true of all writers, but this writer, when she is not writing, is a lost soul.