The Final Word
On Tuesday afternoon, I sat in the same chair I sit in for at least six hours every day, and I stared at my screen (also like I do for at least six hours every day).
What was I staring at?
The final chapter of Arch/Eternal.
More specifically?
The final paragraph of Arch/Eternal.
Even more specifically?
The final word of Arch/Eternal, the book I’ve been working on for nearly five years.
This is the moment I’d been waiting for. The one that I needed to reach in order to feel cosmically permitted to start another project. The one that would make it so if I died, right then, it would be OK.
Because I finished my novel.
Define “finished”
Well, it’s not finished in the sense that I’m ready to package it up and sell it, but rather in the sense that the story has been all the way written. All of the characters have completed their arcs. There are no more major problems to solve, no more major plot twists to discover.
A Brief History
Five years ago, in a spasm of pent up creative frustration, I started writing something just for myself, just for the sake of learning how to write for the joy of it, rather than for money or recognition or some other fleeting source of egoic pleasure.
Three years later, I had written the first draft of a novel I’ve spent almost my whole life believing I had neither the talent or the patience to write.
The draft was broken and messy and unreadable. I had repeatedly abandoned it for months on end, only to return like a beleaguered lover to a bad romance. Eventually, I had sacrificed almost every other creative endeavor just to get to the end.
And when I did, it felt amazing. Ecstatic. Cathartic. Energizing. I was so stoked about myself that I started this very Substack.
And then?
You might know some of the rest.
After a reasonable break, during which I churned out a bunch of short fiction, I went back to tackle the Big Rewrite.
A dozen chapters in, I decided to start serializing what I’d written on Dispatches. Get some feedback, maybe show off a little. After all, I thought, some of this stuff is pretty good!
Skip ahead another six months or so, and it became obvious to me that the second half of the book needed a LOT more work than the first half, which also needed some major revisions. Nearly thirty chapters in, I hit the big red pause button, and crawled back into my dark little creative hole to finish the book.
Pop quiz: What is the most time-consuming part of writing a book?
Answer: NOT writing a book.
Almost exactly two years later, I got to the next major milestone. The one where I’ve got a (mostly) readable draft of a novel.
Why do I feel so sad?
When I realized I had done it, when I realized that yes, those were the last words I was looking at, and the draft was officially complete, I felt none of that elation that I’d felt two years prior.
I felt exhausted.
Discouraged.
Sad.
At first, I thought it was just the overwhelm of what would have to come next, and the fear that nobody will like it, and the insecurity familiar to any writer who spends vast quantities of time making things up for no logical reason.
But then I realized it was deeper.
The characters in this book have become very, very dear to me. On some level, they’ve been with me, awaiting some form of literary birth, for my entire life. For the last five years, whether I’ve been actively working on this book or not, I’ve been getting to know them. They’ve lived with me more intimately. Their stories, their ideas, their hopes and dreams, have been present, ambient, coloring my actual lived experiences.
But after finally reaching the end, knowing that the story is all told, I realized, somewhat unexpectedly, that they would no longer be with me in that way. I hadn’t prepared for that. I hadn’t prepared for them to leave.
Don’t get me wrong, I know they aren’t gone. But they’ve moved out. And while I’m sure we’ll have plenty of long phonecalls during the revisions, we don’t live together anymore.
It’s also possible I’ll write a sequel or two, which means at least some of these characters will move back in with me for a while. But by then they’ll be different, and so will I.
Nothing ever stays the same. Especially not the best things.
I believe this is the substance of grief.
But then, isn’t the richest soil full of death?
Stat sheet
Let’s talk about this sucker.
Underbaked logline:
In an imminently recognizable, present-day world, a couple of freshly-minted adults get mixed up in a grand galactic drama between two competing empires ruled over by godlike beings made of starfire.
Wordcount: ~141,000
Pages: ~450
Chapters: 68 (not including the prologue, for the sake of decency)
Now what?
This is where you come in.
I need test readers. I’ve been making a list. Possibly you’re already on it (if you’ve already offered). But I’ll take as many as I can get. Mostly because I feel confident that a sizable percentage of however many people agree to be test readers will (quite understandably, quite justifiably) not make it through an entire PDF manuscript.
So, if you want to take a crack at it, and prove your undying devotion to me and my resplendent work, by all means, let me know.
(Or just hit reply.)
What a beautiful recap of the "end" of a challenging creative project/relationship. Thanks for sharing ... congratulations on writing The End on such a massive project. While I can't be a reader, I wish you all the best.
I *heart* this so hard.
If you are in need (like 10 people haven't already jumped at the chance to read your book) you know where to find me. But it will likely take me several moon cycles to finish reading, as I am just tiptoeing into the fray of a new novel project myself and well ... you know how it goes.
Still though... proud of you. 💜