On being finished...

I wrote 'The End' today on my latest wip - a YA paranormal tenatively titled 'Unbelieveable' (it may still be retitled to 'Craving').

I gotta say, it feels good. Really good. But why is typing those two words so satisfying when I know it's not really the end? I still have to revise. I know for sure I have two new scenes that need to be added to flesh out the story more. I know I'll be re-reading and angsting over repetitious words and inadequate descriptions and and and... the list goes on.

And yet ...

I've written a novel.

I've done it before and I know I'll do it again but the fact that I've braved my doubt demons and my uncertainty about whether this is the story that will sell feels like an accomplishment to me. I didn't quit.

And yet ...

I'm still not satisfied. Does it have enough of a hook? Does it tell the story I want it to tell? Is the main character sympathetic enough without being a wimp? Is she too strong? Is the story too implausible? Are the motivations true?

One could go crazy.

And yet ...

I finished a book.

And that, over and above everything else, does mean something. I've created something out of nothing. It's still all mine without anyone having seen too much of it so it hasn't been knocked around by anyone else's doubts and criticisms. In a way, even with all its faults, this book is a pure thing. And I love it. Because it is mine.

No wonder the analogy of books being like your children is such a cliche. Because that's exactly what it is like.

I celebrate this small, wonderful achievement knowing that no matter what happens, whether it grows up and flys away from me to be a success or stays with me forever, known only to me and my close writer friends, I will always love it. No matter what its faults.

And, like a good parent, I know that at some point I will have to stop messing around with it and let it be what it is - faults and all. Because, while mine, it is its own being. And nothing is, or ever can be, perfect.