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…