My book is finished. After months and months and months of revisions I've sent it out into the world and now I am left bereft.
There is a strange sense of something missing. An emptiness almost. A space in my brain where my story used to be. The silence is deafening.
But it is also quite pleasant. After a few days of wandering around a little lost I start to enjoy the peace. My subconscious isn't constantly worrying away at plot problems and character motivation, I don't have a nagging voice in my head pushing me to keep writing and the empty space in my brain is slowly filled with the usual stuff of life.
I find I have time to do other things, to go and see Les Miserables twice at the cinema and listen incessantly to the soundtrack, to go out sledging with my family in the snow, to go out with friends and make plans for holidays and spend a few hours mooching around the shops.
I talk to my husband and my son and I listen to what they say - properly, without the distraction of the voice in my head that needs me to find a way for a to get to b or whatever.
I am entirely of this world for now and not lost in my imagination and it's actually an enjoyable place to be. Of course I know it's only for a short time, soon the call will become too strong and I'll plunge into yet another idea/world/plot and be lost again but I believe this time is important. It gives perspective, it makes you appreciate all the things you already have in your life and it allows the creative part of my soul to rest and enjoy just being for a while.
Now I'm off to enjoy a bit more down time, a bit more Hugh Jackman and the honest satisfaction of having completing a project to the best of my ability.