Well, I’ve done it.

I’VE FINISHED WRITING AND REVISING THE BOOK!

And it feels … er … like I haven’t.

I’ve been trying to finish writing Full Throttle for ages: as in, completing and refining the story, polishing my prose till it shines*, and so on.  But I’ve finally done it**.

When I thought about it last week, as the end loomed into view, it was simultaneously exciting and scary.  I thought I’d feel a tremendous sense of achievement; that I’d feel pleased, proud, happy, and satisfied with having produced a whole, coherent novel.

I don’t.  Instead, I feel like a big hole’s just opened up in my life.

I can understand why so many aspiring writers have drawers and files full of unfinished projects: sometimes it’s because the story isn’t right, and sometimes … well … finishing is a big deal.  It’s not just about the hours of work that have gone into it: we writers pour ourselves into our creations.  We can end up living and breathing our characters and our plots … until, one day, we have to say goodbye.

These characters first popped into my head in the summer of 1995.  Over sixteen years ago.  That’s over half my life.  I’ve known them for longer than most of my real life friends.  This isn’t just completing a novel, it’s drawing a huge part of my life to a close.  Admittedly, it was only four years ago that I decided to see if I could produce this novel after all, but still … it’s strange.  These characters are so familiar to me that I can’t quite grasp the fact that I’ve finished telling this part of their story.  It’s time for us all to move on.  (OK, I’m not ruling out any kind of sequel – but I don’t have any ideas for that … yet.)

I don’t feel like celebrating.  I don’t even feel like mourning.  I’m not sure how I do feel.  Lost, perhaps.  Adrift.  I no longer need to prise the laptop off my husband so I can squeeze in some writing whenever I can … and that feels weird.  No longer do I need to spend spare moments contemplating plot and narrative.  I wasn’t consciously aware of doing it … and now, all I know is I’m not any more.  And I miss it.

It feels incredibly odd.  Sort of like someone’s dumped the clutch in my brain, and it’s freewheeling aimlessly with nothing to drive forwards.

I do have my next project lined up – with a completely different storyline and characters – and last week, I couldn’t wait to get FT sorted so I could focus on the new one.  And … I can’t.  Not yet.

I know how to deal with having a book in progress.  I don’t know how to deal with a finished one.  But I think it’s time I learnt.

*No, that isn’t a euphemism.  Though it sounds like it should be.

**To those people who manage to write books and blog several times a week (and produce regular podcasts, in some cases), all while holding down full time jobs and / or bringing up several children … I am in total awe of you and how you sustain it for any length of time without descending into screaming insanity.  I try my best, but I struggle to find enough time to work, sleep, cook, eat, clean and write as it is!