I’m no different from any other writer when it comes to starting stories. I start several at once, and most of them end up languishing in the “Unfinished” folder on my computer.
Naturally, finishing a story is a very big deal. It takes work, dedication, consideration. The first draft alone requires hundreds of hours of writing, several gallons of tea (each mug brewed individually), and a few pounds of popcorn.
The editing process takes at least five different highlighter colors, a week of sleep deprivation, an additional gallon of tea, and absolute silence from everyone on pain of death! (I’m not usually prone to melodrama, but there it is.)
When the excitement is over, after I’ve read the piece—no matter how long it may be— at least five times to catch all those pesky errors, I eventually have to step back and say:
-
Oh, my God. It’s done.
And then, my dear readers, a very real and scary abyss opens up before me. What am I gonna do now? I’ve finished the story. I can’t do anything I’ve been doing for the past six months. I end up wandering around stupidly like I’ve lost something and can’t find it.
Post-Story Depression, that’s what I’m calling it. It’s bloody inconvenient! I want it to stop now.
Disclaimer: I’m not making light of the very serious medical condition of Post-Partum Depression. Did I really need to tell you that?
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I want to read it, my dear!