I have finished the rough draft of my first novel.
It’s gone past the critical eye of two critique partners, so it isn’t as rough as it would have been. In fact, some parts aren’t too bad at all.
I thought I’d feel elated. I thought a giant whoo hooo would come bursting out of me, that I’d be jumping all over the house and popping the cork on a bottle of something fizzy. Done! Done done done!
But…now that I’ve actually typed the words the end at the bottom of the last page, I feel kind of … sad. Let down, somehow. Aimless. It’s finished? Really? But I’m not ready for it to be finished yet. I want to know what happens to my characters. What will they do? Where will they go? I want to keep on living their lives.
But that’s the way of it, I suppose. Every story must end.
So what happens next? Off it goes to Beta Readers, and then I start revisions.
Revision revision revision. Edit. Rewrite. Edit some more. Maybe more Beta Readers.
Until I hit the bottom of the last page. Again.
At some point, I’ll have to give the poor novel a title.
Meanwhile, some yarn therapy: