What do I do now?

Oh my goodness, it’s nearly the end of November and I’ve nearly finished my book! When I say book I really mean the 50,000 words I signed up to write at the start of November - #NaNoWriMo. It’s only flipping worked - I’m nearing the end of the book and I’ve written 48,340 words! Of course, as I haven’t been editing as I’ve gone along (as per the instructions, I’d never have been able to write that much if I’d worried about little things like plot and syntax) I don’t know whether the book will actually be any good or not but I’m feeling very attached to it. I like my likeable characters, am irked by the irksome ones, am slightly besotted with the love interest. In short, I’m going to really miss it when it’s finished. What am I going to do with myself now? Because all that time I was spending writing was time when I wasn’t worrying about what needed to be done for my daughter’s impending birthday or for Christmas. I wasn’t stressing about who had spoken to me sharply that day and whether I was going to chalk it down to experience or hold a grudge against them forever. While I was working on my lovely book, I didn’t think about how much weight I’d put on or how much money I’d spent on new clothes. Come to think about it, when I was writing I wasn’t splashing out on a load of shite I probably didn’t need, either. Most significantly, I was also holding back any feelings of loss and grief which have been a massive feature of this year.
So I think we can safely say that I was using writing as a form of escapism, in the same way that I’ve always used reading as escapism. I think that’s why I detest book snobbery, because books have always provided solace for me, so who is anyone else to dictate what you should be reading or what books have merit.

When I first embarked on NaNoWriMo I told a couple of people that I thought it would be good for me - motivationally speaking, as I always do my homework. (Perhaps I am a people pleaser after all, although I’m reluctant to admit it) The writing never felt like a chore though, I loved it! It was so liberating just to be instructed to write, write and write, without worrying about editing, the most important thing was to get the words down. Every now and again I’d stop and think - does this look right? Does this feel authentic? Then I’d skip on, telling myself, it didn’t matter, it’ll all come right in the edits.

• I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but I had a short story published in an anthology, this year. Between you and me, I think I’ve always had somewhat unrealistic expectations about being published. I never expected unheralded riches, but perhaps I thought I would feel something profound. But when I tell you what I expected to feel, perhaps you will see why I was always set up for disappointment. *Whispers* I think I expected to feel valued, appreciated, accepted, yikes, loved even.  It really pains me to admit this. I saw a comedian at the weekend and he showed us (the audience) a picture of him standing with two other smiling comedians.

“Look at us - we’ve all got the same eyes.” He quipped. “We’re saying - ‘Love us, love us, please love us!.”
I laughed in recognition. It was great to be congratulated on being published, far less great to read some of the harsh reviews. My brother, who studied psychology, told me once that some psychologist said that all Art was an expression of mental illness. This stayed with me. I was fully prepared to accept that I was mentally ill. Nowadays I feel that perhaps it’s less about being sick and more about being heard, though.

Friends, I’m worried about what the actual flip I am going to do when I finish this book.  I’ve set myself the rule that I won’t look at it again until the New Year, so I can look at it with ‘fresh eyes’ and begin the onerous task of pulling it to pieces, salvaging the best bits, making sure the research adds up - editing it! But I loved writing it. And, I don’t want to think about Christmas and all the things I have to do. Neither do I want want to acknowledge the nascent depression, that has been flapping its greasy wings in my face for over a year, threatening to grab hold of me and plunge me down into the abyss. What am I supposed to do now? Write another book you say, ah, OK then!