I am lightheaded with joy and relief. At last my novella is finished. This is the one that got lost several times. The one that I started last January and abandoned. The one that turned out to be so long I thought I'd have to divide it in two. The one I thought I could rewrite into a serial. The one that I thought was terrible.
It wasn't. It's bloody brilliant.
Of course, one always thinks the most recent thing one writes is the best ever, so that feeling may go away, but for now: I'm just going to run with it. It's lovely. It makes me remember why I'm a writer. I created this thing, this story, out of absolutely nothing. It has people. They have lives. They do things that have consequences. And behind it all is a vast backstory that would take a million years to tell.
I love it. I love being able to do this. I think I might just actually take off and fly.
It wasn't. It's bloody brilliant.
Of course, one always thinks the most recent thing one writes is the best ever, so that feeling may go away, but for now: I'm just going to run with it. It's lovely. It makes me remember why I'm a writer. I created this thing, this story, out of absolutely nothing. It has people. They have lives. They do things that have consequences. And behind it all is a vast backstory that would take a million years to tell.
I love it. I love being able to do this. I think I might just actually take off and fly.
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