XENITH

It has been three days since I finished the first draft of my novel. On Tuesday, April 6th, I came home from work and locked myself in my office. To add a little bit to the cliché I made some coffee and turned off all the lights save for the lamp on my desk. I’d written an important scene the night before and so didn’t have all that far to go. In an hour’s time I’d written the last sentence. I ran the word count. I closed the file and thought about it for a moment.

Three months ago when I started this process I was so focused on its end. I would write in my journal about the immeasurable ecstasy that would take hold of me when I finished this draft. I would imagine myself cackling like a lunatic or even weeping with joy. None of that has happened.

When I finished writing that last scene I didn’t feel great relief. Instead I felt anxious. I was alone in the apartment and suddenly that was intolerable. I wanted to be around people. I wanted to talk to someone. I read over the last paragraph of the novel again and was not disappointed. I know that it will change when I begin the revision process but I thought and still do think that it’s a good skeleton of an ending. So what is bothering me?

I think there’s a part of me that’s preventing celebration. I think that somewhere in my brain there’s a logical fallacy that states, “If you celebrate, you acknowledge completion.” Perhaps I don’t want to be done. Obviously there is a long revision process ahead of me, but why not celebrate the completion of a draft? It’s a huge accomplishment.

I’ve been thinking back on what I’ve written. I haven’t read it yet and I don’t plan to read it until May, but I’ve been thinking about it. Right now, at this moment, I feel very proud. This pride doesn’t stem solely from the knowledge that I’ve created over a hundred thousand words of raw novel. It is mostly pride in the novel itself. Right now I love the story, I love its texture, I love its characters. In the process of writing my prose style underwent a considerable change, and toward the end I was writing sentences I’d never dreamed of writing. Right now I love my prose style. Even in its crude state I feel like Rebellious Bird is doubtlessly the best thing I have created. I feel like I’ve done something right.

So why the anxiety? Over the last three days I’ve been revising—not the novel, but a short story I wrote a couple weeks ago. Immediately after finishing the novel I dove into this story and tore it to pieces. I think in that fury there was no small recognition—however unconscious—of loss. In truth I miss writing. I miss having an open storyline in front of me, scenes still waiting to fall into place. I think there’s a sense of overwhelming possibility in that and I miss it. There is a sense of remorse. I had something to do. There were sentences to write over which I could feel elated. In a way writing obsessively was an endorphin release. I felt electric after writing a good scene. As of Tuesday that possibility has been greatly impacted.

My plan for the time being is to take a break from the novel. I have sworn to not read so much as a sentence until May 1st. Writing the short story I mentioned was in a way a test. I wrote it and put it in a drawer for two weeks, then came back to it and saw things that only distance can reveal. My hope is that I’ll see things in the novel I wouldn’t have been able to see on an immediate read. I want to forget, if only for a few weeks, about the characters, about their conversations, about their hearts. I want to go back into it surprised and objective. Unfortunately I’m already feeling a strong desire to read it. Who knows—it might not be long before I cave and dive back into it.

In the meantime I will take things as they come. If I have the desire to write a short story, I will write it. I’m hoping to read books again. I’m hoping to talk to people again. I’m hoping to think of something other than a word count. Spring has come early to Minneapolis and it’s getting harder and harder to stay inside. There’s no need to rush. My hope is to have a finished manuscript ready for submission by December 31st, and that leaves me with eight months to revise. I wrote the first draft in three. I think I’ll be alright.

Related posts:

1. The Novelist’s Deflowering: In the Wake of that Second Draft

   The amateur novelist bubbles up from the depths of obsession and beholds the world that was there waiting all along. Regardless, it won’t be long before that third descent....

2. The Novelist’s Deflowering: Considering the Raw and Formless Matter

   The amateur novelist begins the revision process, which turns out to be more than he bargained for....

3. The Novelist’s Deflowering: A Vocation Indeed

   The amateur novelist discovers the emotional impacts of lethargy. It's a job, after all....

4. The Novelist’s Deflowering: The Courage to Accept the Things We Can Change

   The amateur novelist identifies that which caused so much paralysis....

5. The Novelist’s Deflowering: Slashes and Stitches and the Clenching of Teeth

   The amateur novelist ruminates on that entirely different creature: the third draft....