post by Michelle Griep

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, 

like a long bout 

of some painful illness. 

One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

~ George Orwell

I did it. I typed "The End" on my latest great American novel. Want to know how I'm celebrating?

I'm not. 

Oh, don't get me wrong. I love slapping a lampshade on my head and kicking up my heels as much as the next person. But I don't feel like partying, and that's a little hard for a non-writer to understand. Nevertheless, I'll see if I can explain this in layman's terms . . .

Think about spending four solid months with two people that you've gotten to know inside and out. You know how they think, talk, act and react. You've been with them through tragedy and triumph, day in and day out. You've felt what they felt the entire time. They're part of you because, well, you created them.

Then blammo! With the typing of two little words, end of relationship. Goodbye to your imaginary friends. They are, in all essence, dead.

Would you feel like celebrating?

Okay, so maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, because there is a certain amount of pride and accomplishment at finishing a book. I'm just saying that it's a bittersweet end. 

But after I send in the polished draft and I get my advance check in my hot little hand, then goodbye sentiment and hello little black dress and heels . . . because then I'll really be ready to party.