I typed ‘THE END’ in the first draft of my memoir on January 1st. 91,949 words or 368 pages of my experiences ordered, typed, and ready for edit. I thought I’d feel elated. I did for a few minutes. I shook, I cried, then I deflated faster than a balloon with no knot.
What is wrong with me?
Maybe it was the 2020 malaise many of us suffer from.
Maybe it was the end of a daily conversation I was having with my keyboard.
Maybe I saw how much work there was left, it felt anti-climactic.
My family wanted to celebrate, and I said, “not yet.” That was wrong. They have supported my writing for years now and this was as much their beginning of the end as it was mine (OK, not as much, but they deserve a bit of credit for pushing me, humouring me, and giving me space when I needed it.)
So we opened the bubbly and celebrated. I tried to put my heart in it, but I was still flattened. My family persisted. They asked questions; they showed interest. They were proud of my accomplishment when I couldn’t be. I drank that glass of bubbles and felt the smile. I know I have lots of work ahead. Drafts and drafts are in my future, but I have cleared the first hurdle without a face plant. And, if you know anything about me–both of those things are amazing. I am a shiny object kind of girl and finishing a project is sometimes exhausting. I am also exceptionally clumsy. So yea me for getting over that hurdle. I didn’t fall flat on my face, my bones are all intact, no bandages required. I needed the bubbles and my family, yet again. Now I need three more weeks of rest before I open that shit-pile up and tear it apart. I’m going to need more bubbly…