Ask a writer what her ideal vacation is and she'll most likely tell you it's a lot of intimate time with her computer. Forget the romantic getaways to Rome or the adventure trip to Kilimanjaro. I want a quiet place to write for days on end.
But when you've got kids and guests and a husband who's agenda is more filled up with doctor appointments than Taylor Swift's is with ex-boyfriends, you have very little writing time on your hands. Little time to write means big frustration. Ask anyone who bumped into me last week. If I didn't rip their head off, well, they're just damn lucky.
So this weekend, I decided to let the house crumble around me. I gave the kids the TV remote and didn't roll my eyes when my husband sat down in front of the X-Box. I opened a bag of potato chips and a box of soup to feed the family. I let them put themselves to bed.
I turned on my computer and wrote for hours. And hours. And hours.
And I finished that elusive draft of my work-in-progress -- the novel I'm tentatively calling Sympathy for the Devil. I finally typed in THE END.
Damn. Did that feel good.
But that feeling? It will be short-lived. I've sent the novel off to my critiquing group. Once they rip it apart, I'll have another go and I'll (eek!) send it to my agent and maybe some beta readers. Who, I'm sure, will also have some things to say. And then the whole process starts over. Rewrites. More rewrites. More and more and more rewrites. Edits. Polishing. Submissions. And finally, preparation for publishing -- either with someone else or on my own.
(Don't even get me started on the marketing. I don't want to think about it yet.)
So THE END is actually nowhere near the end. Not really. It's the beginning of a whole new phase in the life of this novel.
But for now? For the next few hours?
I'm going to break out the champagne and chocolate and celebrate with myself.
Because writing THE END is so, so sweet.