I know I lead a small and uneventful life. Maybe that’s why completing a novel and handing it in feels like such a heroic accomplishment. Not as much different from having a baby as it ought to be.
It’s a most peculiar time. The months of struggling against incessant distraction and interruption, to sustain the imaginative authenticity of an invented world, takes every ounce of strength. Sometimes I am badly behaved, during that process.
And then it’s done, and sent in, and one tries to live with equanimity with the world’s resounding ‘So what?’
Much like the hiatus after a death, the days are oddly empty; one’s identity rolls up, completed. A line is now drawn beneath who and what I was last week, yesterday. What now?
I believe sometimes people imagine that when a work is complete there must be celebration, affirmation, excitement. That it’s a jubilant time. But the reality is, that one is spent. And the ensuing silence feels very, very long.