Postpartum Blues

I’m at 73,500 words and have finished my novel—yay!—but now . . . I miss it!

I’m feeling the loss of the daily obsessive urge to write the next scene, the working out of edit issues in my dreams during the night, the waking up to jot them down on scratch paper before I’ve had my morning coffee, the hand cramps since I write by pencil (only certain pencils) and spiral notebooks (only certain kinds), then the chore of keying in everything. I miss the characters, I miss the plot, I miss all the tidbits of action or backstory that I couldn’t squeeze into the narrative.

I even dragged out writing the climax because part of me didn’t want to put the characters through the wringer, to have them experience the traumas, the changes, the revelations, the truths revealed! And yet it had to be done, and now it’s over. Sure, there will be months of rewriting, revising, proofreading, yada yada, but the characters don’t care, they’re done with their adventure (and gearing up for the next, heh).

I know that I’m not alone. I know that every writer goes through this experience (been there, done that myself six other times), but it doesn’t get easier, does it, guys? We all feel drained and separated and “other,” and then we pick ourselves up and do it all over again.

Okay, having spilled my guts, I will now say that it was a BLAST to do and a heck of a lot of fun, especially since this particular novel—Seven Secrets—was the first I ever tried to write, at around 13 years old, and after a gazillion plot revisions over a gazillion years, I can’t believe I’ve actually written it. I’m grateful that NaNoWriMo was an impetus, grateful that my writing critique group has supported and encouraged me, and especially grateful to my sister Katie for pushing me to take up my pencil again after 10+ years. (Whether this latest novel is any good is a whole other conversation for a whole other time.)

Keep writing, hand-cramps willing. Onward!