I finished another book, y’all.
Or, more accurately, I finished writing the same book that I’ve been writing for more than two years. It’s not like I was writing it for two years straight – in between edits I wrote a feature screenplay, a horror novelette, and a whole other novel – but this book, The Impossible Agnes Queen, was always my primary project. And now it’s done.
And I feel… emptied. Exhausted, relieved, and wholly different. I think writing that book was a big part of how I saw myself, and now I don’t know what I am.
Besides between projects.
I’m not allowed to start my next book until I finish a different, less satisfying but more immediately necessary project, but that doesn’t stop me from being a writer. Which is why you see me here, on my rarely visited blog. I gotta put words on paper/screen, otherwise I’ll explode.
That’s a fact: ask my doctor.
Expect to hear a little more from me. Then expect me to drop off without warning, and remember that it’s good news. Then I’ll finally be writing again.