|Empty shelves are sad but enticing.|
I dislike the sensation of having completed a novel. Sure, I like it for the first day or two, but shortly I begin to obsess about my characters. I wonder if I have done all I can to make them happy. The feeling is worse this time because I have done everything but the final edits and proofread, leaving nothing for a tasty midnight snack.
To distract myself so that I wouldn’t finish, I deconstructed my non-functional fireplace to install a row of four bookshelves I bought when the local Borders closed. Even with that, the end couldn’t be strung out forever.
For the last week, deprived of my old novel, I have tried to make headway on a comic book I started last year. That’s bearing fruit, I think: my illustrator says he will have time for it over the summer. I also started on MwaK, a second novel in the NiP series, the one I was planning to write when NiP took over.
I am also beginning to notice that I need money, so I have tried to do something about that, as well.
The bookshelves are symbolic. I got rid of a fireplace that used to offer heat and light (my old work) to add room for what I truly love (writing). The question is, will the shelves be filled with successful projects, or will I have to burn books to stay warm?
We shall see.