My brain hurts...
It's gone 2am, and I've been writing all evening, once again very few words for the amount of time spent, but... this story, Winter Lights, it's the kind of story I haven't written in years, where I take care of every single word, and everything ties into everything else, like ribbons on a kite-string. Blech, it's late, I know what I mean. Anyway, tonight has been not so much about adding words as about arranging and ordering scenes, and I was astonished to find just now that I'm only 3k from the end (equally astonishing is that I know that figure, which is a story in itself, but one far less interesting).
The last eighteen months or so I've started using notebooks a lot, sketching out ideas and scenes by hand as inspiration struck. The notebook I've been using for this story is more than half-full of my scribblings (kind of amazing all by itself). I cross things off when I've used them (or decided to discard them) to keep everything in order, but tonight I realised there's only one small paragraph left unchecked. Everything else is in my computer file, and arranged in order, and all I have left to do now is fill some stuff in and link some stuff together and voila, done.
I've been working on this fic since January November (JFC), not constantly, not anywhere near, but I feel -- more than anything else I've written in the last fives years, and very possibly ever -- like this story has been inhabiting my brain all that time, like it's become part of me. And it's such a personal story, not in content but in mood and tone, that it's almost as though there's this second layer beneath the words that describes what I've been going through the last 9 months. I have assimilated this story into my own narrative, or maybe vice versa, and now it's coming to an end.
Usually, endings are a huge source of relief for me. Endings are the thing I write to discover, and struggle most to find. Usually, I love ending a story. This time, the thought of it is leaving me kind of bereft, like I might actually lose part of my identity once it's no longer this organic, growing thing, but a polished, completed thing sent out into the world. Let me tell you, this is a super weird feel I am feeling.
Maybe I should sit on it like an egg for a little while? Idk. The next round of seasonal_spuffy isn't too far away, and I might squeak through with just-enough-spuffy-to-qualify posting it there, which might give me time to, idk, get used to the idea? Or maybe I should rip off the bandaid, so to speak, and post sooner? Thoughts, anyone? (Just go to bed, Moony, you freak?)
The last eighteen months or so I've started using notebooks a lot, sketching out ideas and scenes by hand as inspiration struck. The notebook I've been using for this story is more than half-full of my scribblings (kind of amazing all by itself). I cross things off when I've used them (or decided to discard them) to keep everything in order, but tonight I realised there's only one small paragraph left unchecked. Everything else is in my computer file, and arranged in order, and all I have left to do now is fill some stuff in and link some stuff together and voila, done.
I've been working on this fic since January November (JFC), not constantly, not anywhere near, but I feel -- more than anything else I've written in the last fives years, and very possibly ever -- like this story has been inhabiting my brain all that time, like it's become part of me. And it's such a personal story, not in content but in mood and tone, that it's almost as though there's this second layer beneath the words that describes what I've been going through the last 9 months. I have assimilated this story into my own narrative, or maybe vice versa, and now it's coming to an end.
Usually, endings are a huge source of relief for me. Endings are the thing I write to discover, and struggle most to find. Usually, I love ending a story. This time, the thought of it is leaving me kind of bereft, like I might actually lose part of my identity once it's no longer this organic, growing thing, but a polished, completed thing sent out into the world. Let me tell you, this is a super weird feel I am feeling.
Maybe I should sit on it like an egg for a little while? Idk. The next round of seasonal_spuffy isn't too far away, and I might squeak through with just-enough-spuffy-to-qualify posting it there, which might give me time to, idk, get used to the idea? Or maybe I should rip off the bandaid, so to speak, and post sooner? Thoughts, anyone? (Just go to bed, Moony, you freak?)