I remember reading in Kenneth Atchity‘s fine book, A Writer’s Time, that if you’re wondering if you’re coming to the end of a writing project, you aren’t. That approaching the end is so all-consuming, there can be no doubt.
Somehow, I always forget this, and then bam, there I am, in the wind-tunnel, waking at 3:00 in the night, and heading for the computer. Typing fifteen hours at a stretch. And then, after days and days of this, somewhat stunned, I look at a paragraph and think: this is the end.
I stagger away from the computer, take a few deep breaths. I come back: is it? Yes.
I go have a nap. I rise, and look at the clutter that has arisen around me, the nest of my obsession. I have a bath, blog, breathe. I feel just a little bit lost, but I’ll recover, no doubt: 125,490 words in 16 weeks, nearly 8000 words a week.
Well. That’s a bit too intense, I think, looking back. I’m not sure I would set this pace again. But it’s done, for now, and I’m pleased.