I am finished.
I had planned to finish before the start of the year, but my calculations were off by eleven days.
I wonder if other writers get a kind of postpartum depression when they finish something. I've written about it before, but not this time.
This time, I'm just done.
So I do get asked the question frequently: What would you do if you weren't a writer?
And I'm, like, what? And give up all this unending, wild, dizzying happiness???
Are you kidding me?
The longest thing I've ever written is finished, and I'm sitting here looking at my notes for the next thing.
Kill me now.
