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I find finishing a novel is a bit like having had friends to stay. Even the ones you love dearly start to bug you after a bit.
Every day you wake up and they are right there, waiting to be fed, or needing research and information, or making demands and taking up the brainspace you need to get the simplest of life tasks done competently.
You get to wishing they’d go. You start getting irritable and start picking at them, little faults start to look grotesque, and you start arguing with them about what they’ve done or said….
Then they go.
Every morning you wake up and there doesn’t seem to be anything particularly urgent that needs your attention. You stare at the telly or the computer screen, but there isn’t anyone staring back.
Of course there is always something to be going on with – an idea for inviting some new folks to stay – or catching up with all the things in life that you put on hold while you were wading through a few hundred thousand words.
It’s not the same, though. You miss them.
I miss them.
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