This morning I finished the final draft of my second novel. It’s done. I think. Or mostly done. I still plan to make a recording of myself reading it out loud, to catch any last little things, but mostly it’s done.
So why don’t I feel like celebrating? It’s weird. Partly it’s because I know there’s still a long road ahead. There will be revisions with the agent, revisions with the editor, then the long (long) road the book will travel through the mysterious mechanism that is the publishing process, but still. I usually feel some instinct to go out to dinner or do SOMETHING in commemoration of finishing a project (or even just a draft of a project).
I’m anxious AF, to be frank. Like I’m staring into a dark void of unknown outcomes. But my only options are to sit on these pages indefinitely (no one is banging down my door for this manuscript), or to suck it up, be brave, and put this baby out into the world.
Maybe I’ll take the kids out for snow cones or something. Celebratory snow cones. That’s a thing. Or if it’s not, it should be.