I just recently finished writing the rough draft of another novel. It’s weird setting aside something that has taken up so much of my time. My thoughts seemed to constantly be in the story while I was writing it, and now I have less on which to focus.
It is freeing in a way. It’s like I let go of that large, grounding force that consumed my thoughts. It’s still out there, in the universe, but it is just tucked away for now. In another way, it is disillusioning. What do I do now? Well, I have a host of other projects to focus on and my life is a mess, so I know what to do. But, still a part of me wants to still think about that story whenever I have a moment alone with my thoughts.
I feel like I have post-partum depression, but for my book. That story was a part of me; it was growing and coming to fruition in my mind. And now, it is out there, still having been birthed from me, but no longer a part of me. I do not carry it with me everywhere I go, as I did while writing it. When I finished the last sentence, before putting it away, I had a sudden urge to vomit. It was a moment where I thought, “I need to let this go, let it be. I need to be separate from it.”
This is only my rough draft, of course, and I’m going to be coming back to it several times before it will be ready for publication. I can’t imagine how I am going to feel when my little book baby is getting ready for everyone to read it. It’ll be like sending my child to college.
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