There was nothing like finishing my first novel. The excitement was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. The sense of accomplishment was as huge as the task itself. I’d finally done it.
This Sunday I finished my second novel. I knew early in the week I’d finish and I noticed a considerable drop in my excitement with each passing day. By the time Saturday approached, I was feeling considerably disheartened and unmotivated. On Sunday I woke up full out depressed and picked a fight with my husband over sandwiches. It was the day I was going to finish my novel. Why was I so despondent?
I did finish it. Then I put my computer away and didn’t tell anyone for hours. I felt confused. I should have felt on top of the world.
I finally posted it on Twitter and my friend texted me not too long after saying something along the lines of, “Eeeeeeee!” I started to feel better. As we talked more and my other friends responded I began to feel some semblance of pride but I never got to the same point of happiness I felt over completing my first novel. Even now, four days later, I’m more in shock and denial than anything else.
I want to think it’s just me missing my characters (which I do) but I think it runs deeper than that. Something has unsettled me. Maybe it’s that it’s real now. The first time was just for fun. I did it as a hobby, as a test to see whether I could do it or not. And now I guess I’m a writer. It wasn’t just a fluke.
It feels like such a responsibility. In a difficult way–I feel a stronger sense to do it all “right.” But also in a great way–I get the great responsibility and power to leave a message for the world. It’s awe-inspiring. And sort of nerve-wracking.
I am happy and very proud of what I’ve done. Now when someone asks me what I write, I can say novels. “Novel” never did sound right.
Hi. I’m Jamie and I write novels.