As my handy-dandy Word Count Meter on the right shows, I have now written the last word of the first draft of the new novel. I posted as much on Facebook and I received all sorts of lovely messages of congratulations. But how did it really feel?

Not as expected. When I wrote the last word of my first novel, Tangled Roots, I cried. Yes, really. It was an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment, joy, fear and even loss. But mostly I think I was proud and amazed at having finished something I never thought I could even start. Those were tears of joy, mostly.

When I wrote the final words of my second novel, A Clash of Innocents, I didn’t cry. Instead, I punched the air with my fist and shouted — out loud, I think — YES! I was thrilled to see I could actually do the deed again. I knew that my final scene was perfect to the extent that it almost felt like a gift from the gods. You know how gymnasts throw their hands up after they land? That’s what it felt like.

So now this week, here I was knowing I was about to write the end of Book Three. But everything was different this time. The scene was outlined. I knew exactly what would happen and how. I had had my eureka moment about a week earlier when it became suddenly clear to me that what I thought would be the final scene wasn’t right and that something else needed to be there instead. That was exciting. But now here I was, needing to write the last 1,500 words and…I just wasn’t doing it. For a couple of days I came up with all sorts of excuses — it was the weekend, my son is home from uni and he might need me, I have to call my parents, etc etc. Then on Tuesday I had a quiet day to myself at home and I knew this was it. This was the time to get it done. But first I  had to sharpen my pencil. Then I had to unload the dishwasher. Then I even had to check Facebook one more time. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. So I got out my old bag of tricks and tricked myself into sitting down. Deciding I wouldn’t write, I would just reread the last thing I had written. That was enough to get me there. And then, two hours later, I was done. Did I cry? No. Did I punch my fist into the air and shout Yes! ? No. Did I run around the flat doing a happy dance? Not even that. I did…nothing. I felt…shamefully blasé. My first reaction was “Okay, good. That’s done. Now I need to do…….” but then when I realised that was what I was feeling, I started to worry. What does this mean that I’m not crying and excited? Is it rubbish? Is it boring? Will I have to trash the whole thing and start again? And if I do, what then? What about all the plans I’ve made, people I’ve told? Oy. What a headcase I can be.

But now, twenty-four hours later (yes, I’m posting this a few days after I’ve written it), I realise how this all makes a sort of sense. It’s the curse of knowing more, I suppose. The curse of experience. I am now happier about finishing than I had been, but I also know that I’m not really finished. Not by a long shot. In some ways, the hard part is just beginning. I liken first drafts to sight reading music. When you sight read, there are no expectations. You can make whatever mistakes you want and it doesn’t matter. The point is to get to the end and see how it went. But then, the practice begins. Hours of exercises, fingerings, bowings, repeating phrases until they land automatically in your fingers. It’s very hard work, and in many ways, more tedious. All that is ahead of me, not to mention the possibility that I might end up being the only person who likes the damn thing when it’s all done. So I suppose that’s all the stuff that has gotten in the way of my happy dance.

That’s normal though, I suppose, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. My measured response to my accomplishment has even started to look like a sort of progress, in the macro sense. Look how far I’ve come. I’ve written three novels. I’ve run this particular marathon three times and I’m still standing and looking forward to tomorrow’s run. I guess I’m a writer, after all. Having that thought did make my feet start tapping. So I put some old Rolling Stones on the box (so to speak), poured myself a glass of wine, and, for a short time, let ‘er rip.

So now I can also reveal the new title. I think we’ll call this one Perfection and Ruin.  How I came up with that title is a subject for another post. But for now, I’ll allow myself a little Yippee. Care to dance?