Two nights ago, I finished writing the third book in a series that took me six months in total to write. I don’t freaking know what to do with myself after spending basically every free moment during that time writing.
Sure, there’s still the whole revising/editing/getting feedback from beta readers going on, but aside from that, I’ve found myself reading sections of all the books because I miss my characters.
A little warning about this occurrence would have been nice.
It seems that since last April, I forgot how to, you know, have a life. Sure, I still went to work and took care of my kids and cleaned my house (sort of), but my mind was often in my books – in the world that doesn’t exist, imagining the interactions of people who don’t exist. It was a genuine source of joy for me. I’d think of favorite parts or phrases and smile in public. And I would become sad when I remembered that my favorite characters weren’t real.
The only conclusion I can draw from this is that I’m crazy.
And that’s not all. I’ve made some other revelations during this process:
1. Not knowing what’s going on in the news might make one ignorant, but it certainly makes one happier.
2. You can get really creative with meal preparation when you don’t go grocery shopping for a long time.
3. Folding laundry is complete BS.
4. Losing weight is easy when you forget to eat.
5. When you expand the time between vacuuming episodes, you experience a greater sense of accomplishment when emptying the canister.
6. Seasons seem to change really quickly when you’re not paying attention.
7. Under the right motivations, you can thrive rather well on little sleep.
I can’t decide if I should remember how normal people live and imitate that or figure out a new topic and start another book. I’m sure avid book readers can relate to this. Rejoin reality, or find another fun and interesting world of fiction? Hmmm. Let me think.