The Finished Manuscript: A Love/ Hate Relationship
post by Michelle Griep
I just finished my, umm, let's see . . . I think this is my 6th or 7th manuscript. They all blur together after awhile. Want to know what it feels like? Picture yourself running top speed for 45 minutes on a treadmill. You're all sweaty and nasty by the end of it. You kind of feel like dying, but then again, as you cool down, exhilaration sets in and you're pretty sure you can conquer the world. You hate it but at the same time you love it.
That's what finishing a manuscript feels like.
You love that you persevered.
But you hate that your synapses are no longer firing and you're pretty much brain dead.
You love the characters you created. They are part of you.
But you hate that you have to say good-bye and shove them out the door and into the world.
You love the warm satisfaction filling your tummy like hot muffins on a cold morning.
But you hate the accompanying unease of oh-my-freaking-stars-what-will-I-do-now?
You love that this just might be your best book ever.
But you hate the creeping suspicion that your editor will immediately shoot you an email asking you what kind of drugs you were on while you wrote that steaming piece of literary manure.
You love that you're done editing the dang thing.
But you hate the fact you'll still have to go through it all again at least twice more.
You love being a writer.
But you hate the doubt that you'll ever be able to pull off another novel again.
There you have it. A bit psychotic? Yep. Maybe even a tad bi-polar. Wait a minute . . . you weren't under the impression that writers are normal, were you?
That's what finishing a manuscript feels like.
You love that you persevered.
But you hate that your synapses are no longer firing and you're pretty much brain dead.
You love the characters you created. They are part of you.
But you hate that you have to say good-bye and shove them out the door and into the world.
You love the warm satisfaction filling your tummy like hot muffins on a cold morning.
But you hate the accompanying unease of oh-my-freaking-stars-what-will-I-do-now?
You love that this just might be your best book ever.
But you hate the creeping suspicion that your editor will immediately shoot you an email asking you what kind of drugs you were on while you wrote that steaming piece of literary manure.
You love that you're done editing the dang thing.
But you hate the fact you'll still have to go through it all again at least twice more.
You love being a writer.
But you hate the doubt that you'll ever be able to pull off another novel again.
There you have it. A bit psychotic? Yep. Maybe even a tad bi-polar. Wait a minute . . . you weren't under the impression that writers are normal, were you?