I’ve reach that much sought after and elusive milestone of finishing a book. My latest novel (my thirteenth to date) is now complete and awaiting a second read. This new novel took exactly one hundred and twenty-two days from first sentence until the final sentence.
As I sit here on this first day of non-novel writing I find myself feeling quite odd and at a loss of how I should spend my morning. I could market and promote, but that’s usually an afternoon activity done after my mind has already squeezed out the creative juices for the day. I could answer emails. Again, something I usually do later in the day. This lack of focus always happens when I’m not working on a book, a feeling of disconnectedness.
Without a few hours writing and living in my imagination, the day takes on an oddity of unfinishness (artistic license with this word), like not having brushed your teeth in the morning or taking a shower without using soap or shampoo. I had planned on taking the next few weeks to concentrate on promoting my other books but I’m finding it difficult to go even a few hours without working on a story. It seems I’ve forgotten the trick to having a normal morning, an addict without his drug of choice. Very strange feeling.