Personally, I experienced one fraction of a second of bliss upon completing the first draft of a book. It is immediately replaced, of course, by a huge crushing feeling of defeat in that I know I will soon be entrenched in editing all of the things I glazed over during the process of reaching this final point.
There's also the side issue of not having my "supposed to be working on" project - you know, the project you're procrastinating on so that all of the other projects you have on the table seem joyous and simple and ever-so-free-flowing? Yeah. I guess I'll have to make something else a priority, slack on that, and get back to writing what I was enjoying, again. Of course, the feeling that whatever I'm concentrating on will become a labor is probably a machination of my creativity drained brain.
The story I finished today landed with the most elegant belly flop I could muster for it. It stands at a whopping 32,000 words, approximately, barely a novella. Yet, that bothers me less than my own concerns over what, exactly, the story is that I've told, here. As with most things, it began with an idea and through the course of my compulsive typings, mutated into a wholly new creature to whom I had not been formally introduced. Standing back and taking a good hard look at the expanse of words I've slapped together, I cannot help but feel a tad concerned that I said not a single thing I intended to. Then again, had I any intentions? I can't honestly remember at this point.
It's a story, after all. A story, dammit! A story is supposed to mean something, even that something it means is ultimately nothing at all! Of course, I doubt I actually believe that.
Now, the fine question I ask myself each time I reach the end of the last line and slap "return."
"What on earth do I do with this?"
