Yeah, I'm late. I'm also sick. So sue me.
Done. It's a lovely word. I whisper it to myself, soft as a morning breeze on the beach. Done. I'm done with my stupid novel.
Any of you who have finished a novel at least once should know what I mean. It's an incredibly liberating feeling. Freedom! I can work on whatever I want! No manuscript-millstone around my literary neck demanding that I finish it. No more little voice in the back of your head reminding you that you haven't worked on it today. Ahhh, blessed silence.
Of course, after a six-month break or so, in which you may have done a lot of other writing, you might find yourself digging the manuscript out (because odds are you haven't had anything but rejection letters on it yet). You look it over. You find places that need fixing. And before you know it…boom. You're shacking up with your old buddy again.
I finished it twice last year alone. I have no idea how many times I've finished it since I started.
But it's done, again, and out the door. With luck I won't have to look at it again until someone else is telling me what they want fixed. Won't that be a nice change?