On February 17th, I finished* my novel.
(* – kinda sorta almost, I’ll get to that later)
This novel I’ve been working on & off (mostly on) for a looooooooong time. So long I don’t want to tell you. Basically, I really made major progress in the last 3-4 years. I started out as a poet trying to write a novel and if you’ve ever been in this particular situation, you will understand how you can work against yourself.
Sometimes you just fall in love with playing with language and the narrative gets away from you because you’re too busy with abstract imagery and not clarity. Hence the above doodled illustration of me falling over the abstract cliff.
Mark has read it twice and macheted away with his red pen and a muhaha expression plastered on his face. After digesting and incorporating some of his edits from his second read-through, I’ve given my 600+ page manuscript to a few intrepid readers and the feedback is positive but I still have more work to do. But it’s not impossible, it’s not infinite.
So since February 17th, I’ve been struggling with The Void. What do I do with my writing life now that this immense undertaking seems to be coming to a close?
It’s a strange and unnerving feeling because this first novel of mine has taken so long, how can I ever start a new novel again? Imagining my life without perpetually writing this novel is a struggle but also a relief.
But I’m close so close, so I’m not that afraid of The Void. No matter what comes of this novel, I will be so happy to have finished it.