Over the last three or so weeks have been flat out teaching at school, and at home writing my book to finally, after four years, see the end of the tale in plain sight. In the last four years, I have written numerous short stories, BLOGS, letters, journal entries, memos, essays, articles, lessons, poems and book & film reviews, all the while chiselling away at my first novel. Today was a special one because a break through was made on the story itself, loose ends tied and secrets revealed, the end a mere small Chapter and a three to four page Epilogue, perhaps only twenty pages of writing left and the book will be done!
Something strange occurred, however, rather than feel elated because years of toil on the project is coming to an end, I felt terribly empty, something akin to guilt for revealing the secrets the book contains to resolve the story. I conveyed these feelings to a friend this afternoon and she seemed to understand. She said that the book has been so much a part of my life, to see it end and leave, is similar to experiencing an emotional loss.
My response was: “You’re probably right, but it feels to be much more. It feels like I’ve opened myself up to the world and as a result have lost a part of myself.”
She nodded her head and replied: “I haven’t read your book, except the chapters you have read to me, but I believe you must finish it, send the manuscript off to your friends and colleagues, rewrite the book and be done with it…start another project, forget this one and really try to move on…”
These feelings are new in my life. Never before has such emotion and commitment been invested in a personal creation, thus my feelings and soul, really, are so much a part of it…interesting…nothing else, short stories, poems, reviews, etc, upon their completion, have brought on such a strange response. I think my friend is right, finish the damn thing, re-write it and send it off to be, hopefully, read by a few individuals at least.
Something strange occurred, however, rather than feel elated because years of toil on the project is coming to an end, I felt terribly empty, something akin to guilt for revealing the secrets the book contains to resolve the story. I conveyed these feelings to a friend this afternoon and she seemed to understand. She said that the book has been so much a part of my life, to see it end and leave, is similar to experiencing an emotional loss.
My response was: “You’re probably right, but it feels to be much more. It feels like I’ve opened myself up to the world and as a result have lost a part of myself.”
She nodded her head and replied: “I haven’t read your book, except the chapters you have read to me, but I believe you must finish it, send the manuscript off to your friends and colleagues, rewrite the book and be done with it…start another project, forget this one and really try to move on…”
These feelings are new in my life. Never before has such emotion and commitment been invested in a personal creation, thus my feelings and soul, really, are so much a part of it…interesting…nothing else, short stories, poems, reviews, etc, upon their completion, have brought on such a strange response. I think my friend is right, finish the damn thing, re-write it and send it off to be, hopefully, read by a few individuals at least.
Note: Image is a photograph taken on a trip to Bright some weeks ago.
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