Finishing a book is a bit like losing your job. You have been consumed with your singular task for years and have lived your life half in this world and half in the fictional world of your novel. And then one day you realize it is really finished. For good or bad. You no longer have the privilege of working on your book. And so you get up and instead of working on that scene, that paragraph, that chapter, than ending, that beginning...you pay your bills, feed the cat, take out the trash.
There is no ticker tape parade. There is no ribbon cutting ceremony. Just an alteration of your daily routine and of course all those things you have put off for years come crashing in. So you immerse yourself in the practical world of living and realize what a mess everything became while you were off in that other world. You work like hell and get nowhere but the piles of things to do does go down slightly. The exhaustion at the end of the day is different. There is no dreaminess of the job well done, there is the edgy feeling that you cannot get it all done.
A book is a luxury. One task. One goal. Finish the book. If you say it once you say it a thousand times. People ask you for years what you have been doing. Working on the book. They are as tired of hearing it as you are of saying it. So you quit saying it after a while and just answer airily you are working on this and that. And so when you finish there is no real news either. Finished the book means nothing to most people. You finished goofing off, you finished whatever you do up there. Like most writing it is a quiet celebration with an audience of one.
So you have finished your novel and you swear you will not start another for a good while. Let everything cool down. Take a break. It is a crazy existence after all. Still, there is that one idea you have been kicking around. Maybe you'll just google it. Do a little research...you never know.
"Rocket Man is a hilarious, well written novel about one man's search for the New American Dream." - James Frey, author A Million Little Pieces and Bright Shiny Morning
"The Catcher in the Rye for the fortysomethings. Not quite boomers, five years old during Woodstock, missed the sixties revolution and ended up being mellow in the seventies, partied in the eighties, floated in the nineties, then lost it all in the Great Recession."