So: I finished writing this today.
Which is… really fucking odd.
I started writing this book nearly a year and a half ago. Different things kept hitting me, good and bad, and one story ended up taking about 10 months to write. It’s just as long as the others, and arguably not one of the best.
And then I finished it in March, and kept writing, and now I’m here.
There’s a lot of redrafting to do, particularly earlier on, but this feels like an achievement. I have finished writing a book. One with words, and substance, and some potentially ill-fated stab at emotional resonance and catharsis. And a healthy dose of weirdness.
I’ll be printing the manuscript on Monday. And then probably screaming in embarrassment for a couple of weeks. But still. I finished writing a book today. That’s so fucking cool.