Finishing books is one of life's Great Things or at least one of my life's Great Things. I did it a few times in my teens and early 20s, and though the books concerned were unpublishable crap (yes, of course they were, and of course that didn't entirely stop me sending them to publishers; at least I'm old enough now to know how bad they were) I still vaguely remember the surge of excitement at typing The End). Finishing the first sort-of-proper book (ie the one that got published, even if only in 'magazine' format), Cathouse, was a bit special. I still remember sitting in the almost-deserted office, banging out the final chapter while the wind howled round the building and the office radio, rather appropriately, played Guns N Roses and Metallica... and then charging off into the West End and running shrieking round the pub telling everyone that I had finished the book, FINISHED THE BOOK.
Finishing the second one was followed by another night in a West End pub, talking to a lot of vampires and grinning stupidly. This time round I felt the same, the best, the delicious surge of triumph even though I was sitting all by myself in a silent house with only Facebook to squeal at. I think the status update was 'Don't know whether to laugh, cry or throw up.'
Because on the one hand it's sheer joy: the work is done. And (because I am lazy and easily distracted and unmotivated) it's quite often been preceded by a lot of crying and swearing and sitting up all night as the deadline
However... I start to miss my characters. I start to miss worrying about them, and thinking about them, and fixing their problems for them. I get to a point where I don't want it to be over.
The natural cure is, perhaps, to write another book. Maybe.
(Surprised at this post? OK, well, this blog was originally going to be all about writing books and selling things, and that IS what it's really supposed to be about. It's not that the world has stopped Being Annoying, it's just that my blog is all about MEEEEE really. Mkaaay?)