I remember what it felt like to finish my novel. To type the last words, without having planned exactly what those words would be, but knowing they were it.

Elation, pain, relief, pride…those are the biggest ones. And they all tried to come crashing out at the same time. They’re trying to right now, as I reach back and grasp at that moment.

But why such strong emotions, for something as silly and easy as writing?

For just sitting still and typing things that aren’t even real? Many well-regarded authors have spoken some version of these words: FICTION LIES IN ORDER TO TELL TRUTHS. And even if my novel is crap, the fact is that I’ve poured over a year of my time, my best skills to date, my heart’s yearnings in terms of the story I want to tell and the emotions I hope to elicit in readers…I have tried my best to write joys and sorrows and fears and anguish and elation.

So no, it’s not easy. It’s deceptively passive. Whole universes are roiling inside the seemingly stoic writer. And typing those final words locks it in as real, justifies all the time and effort, and all of that pent up excitement and anxiety can finally come rushing out.

And now?

A cry, a celebration, a BREAK, and then the work of editing begins.