I've been writing this novel on and off for a couple of years, and I'm finally getting almost to the end. Another writer asked me if I was at the place where you get the weird, excited feeling in your stomach because you can see the end, and you both want and don't want to be finished.
No. I'm ready for this book to be finished. I only want it to be finished. I am ready to 'have written.' I do love the process when it's going well, but the end, for me, is like if I decided to walk three hundred miles, and I'm super excited and at first, I just keep walking. The first day the sunrise is gorgeous. The air smells amazing. My muscles feel great. No, I'm not afraid of that bear. Maybe I'll just cross the road, though. And the second day is, wow, I'm so glad I did this. This is going to be a great accomplishment. My parents are going to be proud of me. My teachers are going to be proud of me. By the tenth day, my feet hurt, I have burs in my hair, and my bra being held on with string. (Don't ask!) It was great, and then less great, and now all that matters is reaching my freaking destination.
That was day ten. Now I'm on day forty-five of my 300 mile walk and if anything gets in my way I will turn it into soup. You feel me?
I'm at that place. I will crawl, shriveled up, dehydrated, exhausted, nearly dead over the finish line and looking back I'll remember it all with such clarity and joy. But right now I have to focus on the end of the road or I might just sit down and get hit by a flying carpet. They're all around out here. Word to those of you who're headed down this road. WOLVES. TAKE PRECAUTIONS. BOOK WOLVES ARE VICIOUS KILLERS.
Mike Harrison (aka M. John Harrison) said to me on Twitter the other day that this is known as 'cellar fatigue.'