I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.
It’s a good feeling, placing a full stop and knowing that, yes, you have reached the end – of the draft, if not the book. Of course, it probably isn’t the end, not just yet, but for the moment, it is, and it feels good.
Yesterday, after longer than I care to remember, I reached just such a point with Draft 3. Thanks to stalling on the last few thousand words, most of it has already been edited, and only this last section of fifteen thousand or so needs to be gone over again. Such a sigh of relief to have got this far.
At this point, I think the fun is really going to start. Now that I actually have a ‘proper’ manuscript to work with, and not just ideas somehow strung together to make a story. Now that my characters are actually beginning to show themselves. It’s good to feel that The End is really in sight – there’s only so many times I can keep going over the same ground and finding new things to say about it.
Or am I the only writer to become bored by his/her own creations? Not in the beginning, obviously, when all is new and shiny and not yet know, but now, several drafts down the road, when the squabbling starts over who’s in charge…