As NaNoWriMo looks over at me, cigarette curled lazily on its lip and whispers “We made it baby, how was it for you?” I can only stare up at the ceiling, counting the flecks of paint, and say “Meh, it was okay I guess.”
Yes, I completed, finished, came, saw and conquered my 50,000 words. But the experience itself has left me with a rather bland and bored taste in my mouth. The kind you get after eating Bran for breakfast every morning. Sure it’s good for you, but it ain’t Crunchy Nut Cornflakes if you know what I mean.
Why? Because I feel like I haven’t really completed anything substantial. I don’t have that sense of satisfaction of holding a 50k word manuscript in my back pocket like I thought I would. As I hold it up, it looks rather underfed and soggy. It’s not all that pretty. It looks like something I have to put through the wash because the cat’s peed all over it again. (Don’t talk to me about cats right now).
Where are the fireworks? The happy dance that I do when I complete a first draft? The sense of warmth and tingly excitement that washes over me when I reach the end?
I haven’t got there yet. I need more time. More massaging, caressing, and some hardcore cut and paste.
This could take a while.
P.S. Congratulations to everyone that made it to the end (and those with good intentions at the start).