I finished writing the first draft of the fourth book in my Gift series last week. The process didn’t end with a thunder clap and popped cork, like I’d hoped. More like a wet splat with cold tea.
Why? I have no idea, but it did make me think about how I’d felt when I finished writing the other three books.
The first one was a shock. I actually Googled whether or not to type “the end” or let it be assumed. I remember sitting there with a grin on my face for ten minutes before I told the cave master. The second one snuck up on me, coming sooner than I anticipated, and pulled me along in its wake. The third…ah, the third. I loved the third one. Saw it coming a mile away and enjoyed every last second of writing it, and then I celebrated full out with a lovely bottle of Amarone. It was the end of the trilogy, after all, no small feat.
But this fourth book of the trilogy (yes, I know…arithmetic isn’t my strong suit) has been a marathon right from the start. I’m not sure why. I had a rough outline, so I knew where it began and I had a handful of the in between scenes. I also knew where it ended, but still, it was a tough slog getting it out.
That could be why typing “the end” on this one left me out of wind. For a day or two afterward, I felt bluesy and out of sorts, and ever since, I’ve been bumping around the house in a daze I’m only now coming out of.
I celebrated the accomplishment a few nights later with my better half and a dirty martini, straight up, three olives, half vodka, half gin. I’m happy to report, though it may have been late and low-key, it was a pretty good ending!