Well, I just finished “Final Kill,” previously named “Fiercest Kill.” I finished it 6/22/11 at roughly 2:30 a.m., and I thought I’d be happy it was finally done. Guess again, folks.
I spoke with my writing coach this morning and conveyed this melancholy feeling to her, and, lo and behold, she completely understood. She explained it as something similar to post-partum depression. An author spends an lot of time, effort, and emotion bringing a story to life, creating this beautiful, artistic expression (or at least the author thinks so), and then it’s just . . . over. Now, I’ve never experienced post-partum depression, so I don’t know if it compares or not (probably not), but I just can’t shake this . . . sadness. It’s almost like a death in the family. I created these characters, but as I wrote they took over and I got to know them as if they were people. (People who don’t write will NEVER understand this, but since nobody reads my blog anyway it won’t matter.)
But, the story is done now, all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow complete with an HEA (that’s happily-ever-after for those of you unfamiliar with author-acronyms. Who am I kidding? Like I said, no one reads my blog so explaining acronyms of any sort is just sort of silly.) Now comes the hard part: growing it from a manuscript into something publishers will want to publish. And let’s be frank. Pregnancy and childbirth are really the best parts of that whole process. What comes after is a lot of mess, hard-work, sleepless nights, and favorite shirts forever stained with spit-up. It’s the same with a book. Writing it is the easiest part. It’s what comes after that’s a bitch.
So here I am, reading through it one last time and finding I still enjoy the story (which is a good sign). My coach told me to put it away and do something for me (she suggested a Russell Crowe marathon, which sounds like a GREAT idea). It’s time to decompress, do something other than be led around by the nose by these characters my brain brought to life. If I drank, a glass of wine would probably be appropriate.
Hopefully I won’t have to wait too long before my synapses misfire and create another set of imaginary people for me to write about. Or, perhaps they’ll misfire and give me the inspiration to go back to one of my half-dozen half-completed manuscripts and finish one of them. Either way, I suppose I’ll just have to muck through it. Anyone have a Xanex?
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